


No Man's Land

by empathalitis, timeandteacups



Series: Ends, Ways, Means & Risk [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #NovemberAmnesty, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Dream Sex, Drunk Will, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, ItsStillBeautiful, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 03, Resolved Sexual Tension, semi-rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empathalitis/pseuds/empathalitis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandteacups/pseuds/timeandteacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a reckless encounter fueled by his inebriation, Will's desire for Hannibal begins to pervade every waking thought he has... as well as his dreams. The cycle of remorse, drinking, and avoidance continues in his efforts to cope, and they both suffer for it. </p><p>Fighting the dragon was one thing, but Will's mind is a battlefield he can't seem to navigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [itsstillbeautiful](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/tagged/ItsStillBeautiful) event by [hannibalcreative](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com)! Also functions as a sequel to our previous Post-TWotL fic, [In My Head There's A War](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7241554).

Will's eyelids crack open slowly – the effort it takes is tremendous, and he's rewarded with the near-blinding brightness streaming in through the slit of the curtains. He squints and hisses in pain, shielding his eyes. Groans as his head throbs dully; mouth dry, stomach queasy. Will grits his teeth and tries to adjust to the disorienting daylight. He can still taste whiskey on his tongue.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is. Not in the States, nor Europe. Not the Palermo of Italy, but Palermo, Buenos Aires. _Argentina._ They'd fled to South America.

Will throws back the covers and slides out of bed, though he could easily sleep a few more hours in his current state. Perhaps even the entire day. He gets to his feet, flannel warm and soft against his skin – it sticks to him underneath his armpits and along his back, where he's damp with perspiration. He doesn't remember ever changing into pajamas. The entirety of the night before is a confusing blur within the chaos of his mind.

Will moves unsteadily, making his way from his room and down the stairs, and somehow it feels like déja vu. He yawns and stretches, shirt lifting to expose the pale skin of his stomach and the curved scar above his navel. Padding into the kitchen, he stops in his tracks when he spots Hannibal in front of the sink, heart pounding at the sight of him. The memories come flooding back in a rush of clarity: his own heavy intoxication, running out of bourbon and finding Hannibal in his search for more. Hannibal helping him back up to his room, putting him to bed, undressing and dressing him. He remembers _kissing_ him. Practically begging to be touched.

Nausea roils in his gut. Will swallows thickly and strides past, reaching into the cabinet to grab a glass. He's still dizzy – needs water and pills. Not to think.

“Good morning, Will.” Hannibal's voice is low, quiet. He shifts to look at him, wondering if he remembers anything from the night before. He can't bring himself to ask, at least not yet. Will looks terrible, and Hannibal is sure he _feels_ terrible. He doubts Will wants to discuss it.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead. He doesn't expect Will to be happy about what happened between them, if he recalls the details. He only hopes Will won't refuse to eat with him. “What would you like for breakfast?”

Will scratches his head, a mess of dark curls coiling in every direction. His stomach clenches in protest. "Not sure I can do food right now," he says, avoiding Hannibal's gaze. He’d prefer some _hair of the dog._ Instead he fills his glass with water from the faucet. Runs a free hand down his face in frustration.

The quiet that follows is cutting, and Will wants to wince at how wrong it feels. His eyes settle on Hannibal's hands, but the sight only makes his body flush hot. He remembers how he'd _made_ Hannibal touch him. Can't stop thinking about it.

Food would probably help, but there's no guarantee he can keep it down. Will sips his water, eyes closing with relief as it quenches his thirst, soothing the ache of his throat. He finishes it in a matter of seconds and pretends to pick some lint from his sleeve. "Maybe just some toast and coffee."

It's a simple request. Hannibal nods wordlessly, opting against protest or the suggestion of more. He immediately moves to brew some coffee for both of them in silence, pops four slices of bread into the toaster. His gaze often flicks to Will, expecting him to do or say something. _Anything_. He doesn't.

Hannibal only wants to help him, take care of him, but Will seems distant, and Hannibal thinks better of trying for conversation now. It wouldn’t do any good… He knows Will won't let him get too close. Not while he's sober.

As he places their modest, no-frills breakfast on the counter, he remembers he needs to buy more whiskey. Letting Will get drunk is not ideal, but it's the only way he feels he can help him right now. The only way Will allows him to help. Hannibal looks to him again, watches Will for a brief moment. The memory of kissing him, touching him, of Will _asking_ him to – it's vibrant. He wonders if he will ever be allowed to touch Will in the same manner again.

“Please, join me,” Hannibal says when Will makes no effort to move. Will was never _this_ quiet, not even in their first days together. It almost feels as if he isn't there at all. Hannibal thinks he would prefer to have Will yelling at him. “Having something in your stomach will make you feel better,” he insists as he sits down. “Coffee is widely believed to ease the symptoms of a hangover. The only true cure is time, as I’m sure you're aware.”

Oh, he was _aware_. Will joins him at the kitchen island, taking the seat beside him and feeling the granite countertop, smooth and cool underneath his palms. He knows Hannibal is watching him carefully, studying him – can feel the dark heat of those eyes boring holes into his skin. His stomach gurgles.

They eat together quietly, just the crunch of toast and sounds of chewing, tentative sips of coffee in between them. Every noise seems amplified, but it's more manageable now. Will’s head still pounds. He shifts and lets a heavy breath escape his lungs.

"Thanks," Will murmurs, and Hannibal was right. He feels better in a physical sense. Emotionally, the rest of him feels like it's bleeding out. Staring emptily past the crumbs on his plate, he already wishes for the numbness of alcohol. He's too ashamed to ask for more liquor.

Will stacks his dishes and leaves them in the sink before retreating back into isolation.

Hannibal watches Will leave, ignoring the urge to stop him, to ask him to stay a little longer, ask him for… _anything_. Anything that isn't more silence. He sighs and stands up; clears the island in a pensive fashion. He doesn't take long to clean up the kitchen, thinking of Will all the while.

Hannibal resolves not to spend his morning brooding, but it's a lost cause. Outwardly, he busies himself with reading; sketching various anatomies for hours at a time. The subject always bears a striking resemblance to Will. Looking inward, he is helplessly distraught.

At around midday, Hannibal raps daintily against Will's door to let him know that lunch is ready. When he receives no answer, Hannibal slowly lets himself in, just to find that Will is asleep. Hannibal doesn't wake him up. He shuts the door again, goes back downstairs and eats lunch by himself. The silence is maddening.

In the late afternoon, Hannibal shops at the local markets. He comes back with ingredients to prepare dinner, and two bottles of imported whiskey. He only returns upstairs after he's finished cooking, and once again knocks on the door to Will’s room.

“Will?” Hannibal's voice is just loud enough for Will to hear him. The answer takes a few seconds to come.

_“Yeah?”_

Hannibal's hand rests on the doorknob. It takes all his strength not to open the door just to look at Will. On their first days together after they killed the Dragon, Will had been rather… reflective. But never like _this_. He had never _avoided_ Hannibal like this.

“Please join me for dinner, Will,” Hannibal softly requests. He leans in closer to the door, hoping for an answer. There's nothing. He rests his forehead against the solid wood. “I'll be waiting for you.”

He knows that Will can't evade him forever. Perhaps he can penetrate his heart by first appeasing his stomach. Hannibal turns his back and departs, making his way downstairs.

Will sighs and presses his face against the downy softness of his pillow. He turns onto his back to stare up at the dimness of his ceiling, eyes glinting in the darkness. Part of him had expected Hannibal to crack open the door – had _wanted_ him to come inside, for the planes of his face to be the first thing he saw as he woke.

He feels lost at sea.

The faint scent of something savory fills his nose, and guilt slices through Will like a knife. Something elaborate, no doubt. The image of Hannibal cooking alone for them both... It makes him uneasy. He sits up and swings his legs around to the edge of the mattress, wipes the sleep from his eyes. He realizes he's still in his pajamas.

His dresser yields a pair of twill pants and a dark t-shirt, immaculately folded – though not by his hand. He hadn't bought them either. He owes everything he has now to Hannibal. Will dresses and runs his fingers through his unkempt hair in an attempt to tame it. His bedhead feels perpetual. Giving up, he opens his door to the warm artificial light of their home.

The aroma is stronger outside of his bedroom, the smell of simmering vegetables and tomato purée, sautéed onions and herbs. Something spicy that tickles his nostrils. Will doesn't dread going down the stairs and seeing Hannibal, not this time. Quite the opposite: he craves him, desires his company and his presence, anything but the silence he finds so suffocating. He discovers Hannibal in the dining room, their dinners plated and served, garnished whitefish on a bed of cooked vegetables. It looks delicious.

He sits.

"Steamed black sea bass," Hannibal begins, though lacking the enthusiasm and flair Will is used to, "with caponata agrodolce and fresh chimichurri."

Hannibal's eyes are alight as he catches sight of him, and Will feels a fluttering in his gut that has nothing to do with hunger. Not for food. He knows this is some kind of offering, and not one he deserves. It feels too much like he's being catered to – like a desperate attempt to appease him. Guilt and remorse render him mute, unable to force words from his mouth. Will knows he can't maintain this type of turmoil.

He's grateful dinner doesn't have to mean conversation, but itches for a drink nonetheless. Some liquid courage to loosen his tongue.

Will reaches for his fork and knife, cuts a flaky, tender piece of sea bass and lifts it to his lips. Parts them to take a bite. The heat is a surprise; the taste of chilies, vinegar, garlic and capers, sweet and sour flavors that tease his palate. He hums appreciatively and hopes it's enough.

But Hannibal's stare is heavy – Will's own gaze drops to the floor almost coyly before flickering up to meet it in a silent challenge. His eyes narrow, the color of slate as he gauges Hannibal's intentions. A different heat sparks in his belly, of yearning and opposition. A composite of warring emotions.

Hannibal thinks about thousands of things he could say during dinner. Different ways to start a conversation. But he doesn't break the silence. Neither does Will. They eat quietly, and every time their gazes meet Hannibal is filled with a new urge to talk to him, reach for him across the table, touch him, kiss him like he had the night before.

 _Will remembers_ , Hannibal thinks. It's the only explanation, the only reason for his avoidance. His detachment. He remembers, and he _regrets_ it. Hannibal looks down immediately, focusing on his plate to avoid Will eyes. He can't let Will see the pain in them.

“Thank you,” Will says as they finish, and it's little more than a faint susurrus. Hannibal’s gaze meets Will's again, and Will's expression is hard to read. Hannibal offers him a smile, one that doesn't quite meet his eyes. There's no point in pretending everything is fine.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Hannibal answers. He'd knowingly prepared the meal in regards to Will’s fondness for fish. Anticipated, with hopeful optimism, that Will would enjoy it. He decides he wants to help Will feel a bit more relaxed, offer him what he needs – what Will _thinks_ he needs.

“I bought you some whiskey,” Hannibal continues after a pause, watching as Will's gaze flicks to his face again. He suddenly seems far more interested than before. Almost… relieved. Hannibal carries on. “It's on the kitchen counter, if you'd like some.”

Will blinks in mild surprise – it turns to dismay as the realization dawns: Hannibal was _enabling_ him. Will's ashamed by how much he wants it. Needs it. It's the only way to keep all of this off his mind, but he shakes his head. A weak refusal.

"Not now, thanks," he manages. Not now, but soon.

They gather their dirty plates and silverware, taking them to the kitchen. Hannibal appears occupied with cleaning.

"Anything I can do?" Will asks, uneasy. He sets his dishes down on the counter and smooths his hands down over his pockets. It's difficult for him to stand still, and he shifts nervously on bare feet. A light sweat breaks out across his skin, his body already eager for its usual poison.

"I can take care of this much, Will," Hannibal replies. His tone is earnest. Genuine. Somehow it makes Will feel even worse. "Don't worry."

He'd like not to. Will gives a curt nod and then he's turning on his heel, fetching a tumbler and snatching a brand new bottle of whiskey from the countertop. The living room beckons him, and he settles into the plush love seat; pours himself a stout glassful. Staring at the carpet is too depressing, even for Will. If he's going to drink his worries away, he'd rather do so in the middle of something else.

He spies Hannibal's tablet on the coffee table. Doesn't think twice before he's taking hold of it, setting it down in his lap to browse the web and nurse his drink. Will finds himself on _tattlecrime.com_ – he's sober enough to use a proxy before visiting. Any international hits could potentially arouse suspicion. He's not about to tip anyone off to their survival, let alone their location.

Will takes another long sip of whiskey as his eyes settle on the newest headline:

**_REMEMBERING SPECIAL AGENT WILL GRAHAM  
by Freddie Lounds_ **

A muscle twitches in Will's jaw. Something tells him to simply ignore the article, that it's all just tabloid nonsense, but his curiosity gets the best of him. He braces himself for the worst as he starts to read…

_"TattleCrime gets the inside scoop on the tragic story of a twisted, troubled mind._

_We interviewed the recently widowed Molly Foster, who agreed to honor the memory of her late husband in this TattleCrime exclusive. Foster is currently recovering from a gunshot wound she sustained after surviving a vicious attack by serial killer Francis Dolarhyde, better known as the Tooth Fairy. The botched murder attempt on her and her young son was encouraged by none other than the notorious Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter, who harbored a deadly grudge against Graham following his incarceration._

_"Will was a good man," Foster told TattleCrime. "But sometimes, you think you know someone. . . When you love them, you want to think you know them. I don't think I ever really knew him at all."_

_Jack Crawford, former head of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit and Graham's ex-superior, declined to comment. He has since been reinstated as agent-in-charge of their newest division."_

Will knocked back the rest of his whiskey. His hands were trembling. He wonders if Molly cried. If she mourned him, was mourning him now – or if a part of her already knew he was lost to her long ago.

_"It's clear that after coming into contact with Hannibal Lecter's particular brand of madness, Graham suffered irreparable damage. Years of criminal profiling and Lecter's toxic influence took a heavy toll on an already fragile psyche, and Graham was sent spiraling into gradual insanity. Though his efforts eventually led to Lecter's arrest three years ago, Graham retired from the FBI, where he continued to be haunted by his traumatic past._

_Re-recruited by Jack Crawford to investigate the Tooth Fairy killings, Graham's mental instability resurfaced. He hatched a scheme to bait Dolarhyde, a self-proclaimed 'avid fan' of Lecter's work, out of hiding following a staged break-out from the BSHCI. The Tooth Fairy was later killed in the bloody showdown that ensued, with Graham and Lecter meeting their ends over an eroding cliffside on the Atlantic coastline._

_Their bodies have yet to be found._

_Will Graham is remembered as a loving husband, father, and a dedicated member of law enforcement. One of the FBI's most gifted profilers, his unique thought process allowed him to tap into the minds of the country's most ruthless killers, saving countless lives and earning him near legendary status in his line of work. Unfortunately, his gift proved too great._

His sacrifice and his untimely death, however, will not soon be forgotten." 

Will realizes he’s gripping his old-fashioned glass like a vise. Anger ignites inside him, burning up all else and seething quietly like fire in his bones. Will tosses the tablet onto the couch, not bothering to close the tab he'd opened. He pours himself another two fingers of whiskey and sips it until he's drained his glass dry. His ring catches the light beside it. He can't quite bring himself to take it off.

"I'm going to bed," Will calls, then trudges up the stairs.

He takes the bottle with him.

“Good night, Will,” Hannibal replies from the kitchen, but he doesn't think Will hears him at all. As he finishes cleaning up, he enters the living room to see if Will had left behind the liquor and his glass. What he finds, instead, is his tablet on the couch, the TattleCrime webpage still open on the screen. Hannibal sits down carefully, grabs the tablet, and reads. The words sink in and claw at his heart like talons.

The article’s distasteful contents don't surprise him, and yet... Molly Foster. She had most certainly loved Will. Hannibal wonders if he still loves _her_. If _she_ is the reason Will drinks every night. The reason Will escaped upstairs, intent on reaching the bottom of another bottle. He wonders if Will drinks himself to sleep trying to forget about his wife.

Hannibal knows of the guilt Will carries on his shoulders, and the confusing feelings he harbors for him. He knows they are… complicated. Conflicting. There's some kind of attraction between them, something that draws them to each other. Something stronger than them and inescapable, like the pull of gravity. Will left everything he had behind for him, but is there a part of him that still loves Molly? That perhaps _misses_ his mock life as a husband and father to a child not his own?

Hannibal shuts off his tablet and places it back on the tabletop. When he lies in bed half an hour later, he doesn't fall asleep. He stays up just so he can go to Will's room when he's sure Will’s dozed off, and check on him to make sure he's alright. He stares at the ceiling, and the only thing on his mind is Will in the other room, grieving, drinking himself blind as he thinks of what he's sacrificed.

And Will _does_ think – alone in his bed with nothing but shadows and stillness to keep him company. He thinks about Molly, about Walter, about himself and their dogs. He thinks about the life he left behind, the Dragon, the fall. About Jack and Alana.

But most of all, he thinks about Hannibal.

He thinks until he tires of thinking, and then he drinks. Pours himself another glass, numbs his brain and mouth with the sweet burn of whiskey. Even then, Hannibal won't seem to leave. Will might as well be branded.

He has given up on the idea of escape. Of peace. Hannibal is everywhere, present in everything. He is vital and permanent, there in his marrow, in the cavity of his chest where he makes his home. Will is imbued with him – an enduring entropy, and he's doomed to it.

He doesn't put the bottle down until even his thoughts lack coherence, detached, half-formed memories and intoxicated imaginings. Flashes of tanned skin and warm lips, eyes like burgundy wine, sharp teeth bared and dripping with blood. The images blur behind his eyelids, and Will turns onto his side before he blacks out.

He dreams.

Of crashing red waves that scale back to the pools of Hannibal's eyes, gazing back at him expectantly. The hard lines, the sensual, masculine dips and curves of a scar-littered body. His own trembling fingertips ghosting over the tender, mangled exit of a gunshot wound. A gust of hot breath at his throat. The touch he feels – Hannibal's touch – is so frighteningly real that Will nearly wakes with the sensation. But unconsciousness lingers, and instead he feels slickness, silky smooth and viscous, warmed between elegant fingers.

Will feels himself being opened up, but there isn't pain or the cold bite of linoleum. Just a stretch, and then a bluntness pressed against him until his body yields. A slow penetration of another kind, a feeling of fullness and pressure, and Hannibal is inside him. He's inside him, and he hasn't been cut or gutted. There's no emptiness or sorrow, nothing but he and Hannibal and a means other than violence.

Will surrenders to it. Even if it's just his liquor-addled mind playing tricks on him, he surrenders. It's hypnotic, the hazy quality of his fantasy, flesh on flesh, Hannibal above him, below him, behind. Amidst the darkness and heat, the ecstasy of it all, he feels the lick of rushing water – cold and dark, slowly surrounding them until they're both submerged.

Will lets himself drown.

He wakes with a racing heart, gasping and covered in sweat from head to toe. He's not sure how many hours have passed, but he finds himself fully dressed, tucked in safe and warm in his bed. He knows he must have passed out in his clothes; hadn't even managed to make it underneath the covers. _Hannibal,_ he thinks.

Will tries to separate his dreams from reality. His skin is humid and flushed, body thrumming with the fading impression of pleasure. Still catching his breath, he slinks out from underneath the sheets. Divests himself of his shirt and trousers, now soaked with sweat, and is left shivering, the thin fabric of his boxers riding low on his hips. Will drags himself to the bathroom where he clutches at the sink, running cold water from the faucet. He washes his mouth, but the tingling aftertaste of alcohol and Hannibal remains. There's a sharp, coppery smell in his nostrils, but Will can't seem to find its source.

In the stillness of the night, Hannibal is startled by a noise coming from down the hall. He’d been unable to sleep since checking on Will in bed. Will had tossed and turned, whimpering like something wounded. It had been exceedingly difficult to leave. Now, Hannibal chooses to ignore the fact that Will probably doesn't want to see him – he gets up to head to his room.

“Will?” he calls as he knocks on the door, then opens it slowly. His gaze flickers to the bed, but Will isn’t there. There's light coming from the bathroom, and Hannibal enters without asking for permission, too worried to care.

He finds Will by the sink, panting as he looks into the mirror, wearing only his boxers. He smells of sweat and alcohol, and Hannibal watches as Will turns to face him.

“Nightmare?” Hannibal asks, wondering about the content of Will's dream. He was used to Will's nightmares. He supposed they revolved around the bluff, the waves of the Atlantic, the dragon. Now Hannibal wonders if they aren’t about Molly Foster.

Will sighs, eyes closing as he wipes away the droplets of water clinging to his lips and chin with the back of his hand. "It's fine," he croaks, avoiding the question. "I'm fine."

He feels far too vulnerable for his own good. Will glances at Hannibal's face, senses unease despite his deceptively calm expression. He follows Hannibal's eyes to the scar stretched across his own abdomen, sees the way they darken in the fluorescent glow. Nearly black, like an animal.

"You're still awake," Will says, meeting Hannibal's gaze. He doesn't have his watch on. Has no knowledge of the time whatsoever, but from the color of the sky outside the window—a deep, navy blue—he guesses a few hours after midnight. His pulse races as Hannibal steps closer.

He's been occupying Will's thoughts far too much, even his dreams have begun reflecting his need. His subconscious had triggered his recollection: how Hannibal had touched him the night before, the light scratch of barely-there stubble against his cheeks as they'd kissed. The smoothness of his lips, his hot, seeking tongue, the warmth of his hand on him. How he'd stripped him of his clothes, redressed him, handled him so _carefully_ , as if he'd break with the contact. Will was nearly disappointed he hadn't done so again.

Will remembers everything, every single detail, and he wants it back. Wants it again. Wants Hannibal to take away all of his pain, to replace it with the bite of his teeth or the bruise of fingers. Anything but this. Anything Hannibal was willing to give he’d take, savoring every moment. He wants Hannibal to make him forget the guilt he feels, forget about everyone else; everything he'd left for him, because if given the chance he'd only do it all again. It's just not something he can face. Not directly.

Hannibal steps closer, approaching him without a sound. He doesn't answer; lifts his hand and touches Will's face softly instead. He looks into his eyes, searching their depths as he caresses his cheek. His thumb traces across the scar there, pink with healing.

Hannibal would give anything to be able to touch Will again, as lovingly, as _intimately_ as he had the night before. Have him warm and pliant in his arms. He doesn't remember ever wanting anything as much as he wants Will, and now, being this close, watching the openness of his face and the way he leans into the touch – Hannibal knows there's a part of Will that feels the same.

“You should have a shower,” Hannibal suggests, withdrawing his hand as he steps back. “It'll help relax you. Make it easier to sleep.”

Will looks almost disappointed by the loss of contact, but Hannibal doesn't touch him again. However dominant Will's feelings for him are, Hannibal doesn't want to force him into doing anything he might regret. Hannibal never wanted to push Will into a romantic or sexual relationship with him – it wouldn't make him happy to know he manipulated Will into it. He needs Will to want it, to _choose_ it.

“Yeah,” Will agrees, fingertips trailing across his own clammy skin. He’ll wash off the stench of musk and alcohol. Clean the sweat from his body.

Hannibal offers a tight smile, one Will doesn't buy for a minute. He excuses himself only to fetch new linens and return to Will’s bedroom. Hannibal flicks the light on. Changes Will's bedsheets, replacing them with clean, dry ones. Bends over to gather Will's discarded clothes from the floor, the damp sheets; drapes them over his forearm. The sweat-soaked clothes and linens smell strongly of Will, and Hannibal resists the urge to bury his face in them. They go into the laundry hamper instead.

Hannibal returns with a pair of fresh pajamas and undershorts, leaves them in a neatly folded pile on the marble counter of the washroom. Will hasn't moved much. He stands awkwardly, as if in a daze, his own arms wrapped around himself.

Hannibal longs to hold him close until he drifts asleep. Reluctantly, he takes his leave instead, shutting the bathroom door to allow Will some privacy. Some space.

Will inhales deeply... Somehow, he feels like a coward. Like he's missed a chance. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had to keep his cool. To look Hannibal in the eye, not to freeze up and flee. He forces himself to move, runs the shower and tugs his thin boxers down his hips, his thighs, until they're crumpled at his feet. Will steps into the spray before it even has a chance to warm, breath hitching at the sudden shock of freezing cold. _Probably for the best,_ he thinks. His dream had riled him up. It helps somewhat. He's been half hard since jolting awake in his bedroom.

But Will is reminded of the icy waters that had swallowed he and Hannibal whole. He rests an arm against the tiled wall of the shower stall, brow against his forearm.

The water beating down on him slowly grows warm, then hot. Starts to feel good as it soothes his muscles and cascades down his body. The steam and heat flushes his skin, softens it, makes him feel light headed – even so, he still can't get Hannibal out of his head. Can't stop thinking about how things could have gone differently.

If Will hadn't fallen asleep that night, would Hannibal have continued to touch him? Coaxed him to hardness until he was straining against his pants? Or maybe he would have found something to ease the friction. Slicked his palm and slipped it underneath his waistband to grip him and squeeze. Feel every inch of him as his fist glided along his flesh, hot and tight.

Will's cock swells, lifting to curve pink and glistening against his belly. He knows he’ll give in to the urges of his body sooner or later, to tire himself out if nothing else. There's a bottle of something foreign in the shower caddy – Will recognizes French on the label. He squirts some into his palm, a luxuriant body wash that smells of lavender and sweet tangerine. It's slippery and smooth against his skin. Will takes himself in hand, stroking leisurely in the heat of the water. Sounds of pleasure fall helplessly from his lips, though he bites them to hold back as much as he can. He can't stop himself from imagining.

He breathes Hannibal's name as the muscles of his thighs and lower abdomen go taut with pleasure, and he reaches blissful completion with fast, frenzied pulls. Will spills in long pulses against the tile, panting into the humid air.

Satisfied and spent, he finishes cleaning up. Turns off the showerhead and steps out of the stall to dry himself off. He changes into the nightclothes Hannibal had brought him, feeling relaxed but deeply conflicted. Will returns to a clean, dry bed, linens fresh and cool.

He crawls underneath the covers and closes his eyes.


	2. Friction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra long chapter to compensate for the late update! ♥

It isn't until the early hours of morning that Hannibal abandons the notion of sleep altogether. Instead, he makes it his duty to go downstairs and prepare breakfast. He opts for something bland and reliable – more coffee and more toast, doubtful that Will would want anything else. The dark circles under his eyes are almost imperceptible, but they are there, and he’s sure they'll be noticed. He tries not to think too much about it, about the night before, but it’s useless. Hannibal pushes down the slices of bread, then leans against the counter and closes his eyes. Last night had felt both real and imagined.

_As he made his way back upstairs after discarding Will's sheets – the smell of them still clouding his senses – he couldn't resist going back to check on him. Will could have all too easily passed out in the shower, slipped, fell and hurt himself. He stepped into his room and went straight for his bathroom door, but a noise echoing off the walls of the shower made him hesitate. Will’s voice; a broken sound of pain or pleasure. His heart raced._

_It was difficult to hear with the rush of water in the background, but Hannibal leaned against the door and closed his eyes, trying to focus. He listened to the soft, wet noises that were barely audible, the huffs of breath and hitched gasps. Will moaned louder then, more urgently, and it was effortless for Hannibal to picture him, glistening wet, hand wrapped around his cock as the water beat down in a heavy spray against his back._

_For a moment, Hannibal didn't worry about_ who _Will was thinking about, if it were him or Molly or someone else altogether. He simply listened, thought of pushing Will against the wall and feeling every inch of him, licking the droplets from his skin and sucking bruises onto his neck. He imagined making him come using_ his _hand, his_ mouth, _as Will held onto him tightly. Hannibal's grip tightened around the doorknob when Will finally came. He was doomed the minute he thought he'd heard a choked out “Hannibal” coming from the other side of the door, faint as a whisper._

 _Afterwards, Hannibal left Will's room with haste, retreating to his own quarters where he tucked himself into bed. His own arousal was more than just a sympathetic response, but he tried to ignore it. Will would never know he’d heard him. For the majority of the night, Hannibal stared at the ceiling in the dark, wondering if it could be true that Will had touched himself and thought of_ him. 

_He wasn't able to sleep._

The _POP_ of the toaster startles Hannibal, pulling him back into his current reality. He turns around to see Will staring at him with a puzzled look on his face and wonders how long he's been standing there. If he’d perhaps spoken his name or tried to get his attention. By the looks of it, Will didn't seem to have slept much either, if at all, and Hannibal questions if he felt guilty for touching himself with him in mind. He knew Will definitely felt guilty for wanting him. Maybe he felt like he was cheating on Molly, betraying her. Maybe he felt like he was betraying himself.

Hannibal sighs. He wants to ask, to push the subject, curious what would happen. But the risk was too high, and it may just make Will want to drink more, avoid him further. It would be better to just pretend everything was fine. 

“Good morning, Will,” he says, trying to organize his thoughts – only Will could do this to him, make him feel so _affected_. “I made toast and coffee, but I can prepare something else if you'd like.”

“Morning,” Will croaks. He thought he'd have trouble looking at Hannibal come morning, but it isn't the case at all. He can't seem to _stop_ looking at him. His posture, the elegance of his form as he moves fluidly through the kitchen, hands just the slightest bit unsteady. Meeting his eyes makes Will's stomach flip, and his body tenses where he stands.

"No, that's... Fine." Will's head tilts – it was unusual to see Hannibal in a daze. Scrambled. Then again, he imagines he must appear to be in a similar state. 

"Hannibal—" Will begins, desperate to break the ice, to rid them of this awful energy. An attempt to absolve himself of the guilt he feels; a chance to be honest and upfront. A cry for help. Whatever it is, he tries to take it. 

"Thank you. For this, and for... Everything you did last night. Everything you've done and continue to do." He's been helpful, that's for sure – infuriatingly so. Not so much when it came to Will's dreams, but that couldn't be controlled. 

Will can't bring himself to say sorry for the things he remembers doing, the things he knows weigh heavy on Hannibal's heart. To apologize for being so damn useless, self-medicating with booze and sleep. He's in a funk, and he knows it. 

"You're in mourning," Hannibal says matter-of-factly, busying himself with their breakfast. "You must be allowed to grieve for the lives you've lost, including yours. To lament the ghosts of your past." 

All of that seemed far away, but Will knows it still plagues him. There's a dull pain behind his eyes and he winces. "And the life I've gained? Do I grieve for that too?"

Hannibal is silent. He snatches a bottle of whiskey from the counter, takes out an old-fashioned glass and pours Will a drink. "Your process is your own." 

"...Hair of the dog?" Will asks. He wonders what happened to time. 

"Hair of the dog. If, you feel you need it." 

Will hesitates. It feels like some kind of test. He realizes it's been some time since they've communicated properly; that he himself was largely at fault. He wonders how long they can continue like this – out of balance, with him taking taking taking while Hannibal gives and gives. Will almost wishes they still had Chiyoh as a buffer. 

He grabs the tumbler and takes a burning swallow, hoping it keeps his hangover at bay. Hannibal averts his gaze. 

_I'm using you_ , Will thinks. _Abusing you_. It's on the tip of his tongue. He watches as Hannibal breathes, eyes the steady rise and fall of his chest. Wishes he could do something other than _hurt_. His headache melts away slowly. Will finishes the last dram of whiskey and chases it down with freshly brewed coffee. 

He resists the urge to snag his breakfast and leave. Hannibal's coddling of him is unsettling – playing housewife while Will does nothing but drink and sleep. He wants Hannibal to make his intentions clear. To take what he wants. The way things have been lately... Will feels as if he's been getting away with murder. 

They're both stuck at an impasse. Will wonders why Hannibal has allowed this to continue the way it has. He doesn't say a word to him after breakfast, falling back to his room where a twin bottle of whiskey is waiting. 

Hannibal prepares lunch for them. It’s meat... Of the beef variety. Argentine steak sirloin. Will doesn't eat much. He almost finds it disappointing, but knows it's far too soon to give in to their animal urges. To hunt, rend and kill. 

Later that day, Will decides he needs some fresh air. To venture outside. A walk had the potential to clear his head. Maybe he's going stir crazy. Maybe his proximity to Hannibal, his inability to escape him is only driving him to drink. He knows there's no avoiding him, not for long, but he needs to think without the influence of Hannibal's feelings. 

Will grooms himself, trimming the scruff along his jaw until it's short and neat. His hair has grown rather long in their recovery, messy curls spilling down to his shoulders. Will dresses and ties it back, slipping a pair of sunglasses over his ears.

"Hannibal," he calls, making his way down the stairs. He finds Hannibal on the couch, reading quietly: _The Art of War_. Machiavelli. 

"You're going out." 

Will leans against the banister. He wonders just how far he can push. How much he can get away with. He's tempted to test the limits. 

"Cabin fever. I'll be back before dusk." 

He doesn't mistake Hannibal's silence for assent. He's thinking. Will can imagine the idea doesn't sit well with him, but it's not like he can keep him from leaving. 

"I trust you'll be careful," Hannibal says. A beat passes, and tenderly, he adds, "Be careful." 

It seems too easy. Will dips his head, hiding the mild surprise he knows he has painted on his face. 

"I wouldn't miss dinner." 

  
  


The markets are a natural choice. The sun is bright and warm on his skin and he's already sweating, eyeing a visor with a built-in fan. Will doesn't have any _pesos_ to spend. He continues browsing, running a finger along the hilt of an old samurai sword. He thinks of how Hannibal has replaced nearly everything he owned back in Baltimore, from his tablet to his vacuum coffee maker. It figures he's out to take his mind _off_ of Hannibal just to have him invade his thoughts anyway. 

Will keeps looking. There are watches and colorful handbags for sale. Vendors offering handmade goods. Toys, clothes and souvenirs. He spies some painted leather masks – a pig, a lamb. A wolf, tiger, bear and lion. At the far end of the table is a stag. 

Will gets the sense that he isn't alone amidst the crowd. 

He heads to the Palermo Woods. 

It's peaceful, with its rose and Japanese gardens. Beautiful sculptures and shimmering lakes – even a planetarium. The kind of place Hannibal would frequent. Will wonders what he does when he's locked himself away in his bedroom, knocking back finger after finger of whiskey or anything else he can get his hands on. Hannibal has seemingly adopted the role of caretaker since Chiyoh's departure, though she promised to return. 

Will thinks he glimpses him a few times, amongst the woods and again beside a group of tourists. Flashes of Hannibal’s silhouette here and there, so familiar that Will could pick him out from his shadow alone. His outline. Whatever he thinks he sees seems to be gone before Will can even do a double-take. It occurs to him that he's likely being followed. The thought doesn't bother him as much as it probably should… As long as it was Hannibal and not the _policía_. It made no difference if they could keep a low profile.

As the sun starts to set, Will makes his way back.

When he returns to the house, the first thing he notices is that the door is unlocked. He enters and locks it behind himself, doesn't see Hannibal but knows he must have made it back before him. Very inconspicuous. 

Will makes a beeline for the stairs, barges into his room and collapses onto the mattress. There are clean sheets, clothes and towels folded neatly atop the bed. They’re still warm. Will stares at them for a moment before reaching for the bourbon on his bedside table.

He gets _plastered_.

A few hours later it's Hannibal's room he's bursting into, flushed and obstinate. " _Hannibal_ ," Will drawls, and he can't decide if he's trying to sound menacing or seductive. 

He's so tired of thinking. Of feeling. Of doing whatever he wants without consequence. Will knows that Hannibal wants him. That he loves him, is _in_ love with him, wants to touch and be touched. It's something he can feel whenever they're around each other, and it gnaws at him, eating away at his sanity… Whatever's left of it. 

Drinking doesn't make Will forget how he feels, how _Hannibal_ feels. It doesn't take away the memories or the pain, the guilt, the self-deprecation. It's seared into him. _Inside_ him. 

Hannibal won't give in, won't initiate, but Will has nothing to lose. 

"Stay there.” The glass whiskey bottle knocks heavily against the door, and with his free hand Will clings to whatever he can. He manages to stagger across the master bedroom, where Hannibal watches him, slowly sitting up against the headboard. The lamp on his nightstand glows dim and orange, casting the room around him in warm light. Will sways in the shadows. 

He makes it to the foot of the bed before his knees buckle, and his arms shoot out to steady himself against the mattress. Some whiskey spills from the bottle to soak a small stain into the bedsheets.

" _Fuck_ ,” Will murmurs, fumbling to screw the cap on properly. “Listen, I don't care if it's a bad time—you and I? We've gotta talk.” 

He sits back on his heels, breathing heavily through his nose. The scent of alcohol makes him feel more at ease. His tongue is already loose. Will can feel his heart chugging away inside his chest, like the engine of a speeding runaway train. It's headed off the rails. 

“Let's _talk_.” 

Hannibal watches Will, moves closer to him, so close their knees are almost touching. The smell of whiskey is so strong Hannibal can practically taste it himself. The stain in his bedsheets would mean death to anyone else, but this is _Will_ , and Hannibal forgives. Hannibal can't help but forgive him. 

He wonders if Will is angry at being followed that afternoon. He's sure Will noticed his presence, _felt_ Hannibal's gaze on him. He wonders if it’s why Will is here now. It's not something Hannibal can change, or admittedly even wants to. He _needs_ to protect Will and keep him safe. Keep them both safe. If this means never letting Will go out alone, whether he likes it or not, then so be it.

It will, of course, be impossible to reason with Will now, as drunk as he is. Hannibal's chest aches. After Chiyoh left, they hadn't spent one moment together where Will wasn't heavily intoxicated or hungover. It feels like it's been a long time. 

Hannibal's gaze drops to Will's hands, to the bottle he's still holding. He wants to pull it away from him, take hold of his hands and kiss each and every one of his beautiful fingers. He wants to be the only thing Will needs, for Will to find comfort in _him_ instead of the alcohol. To let _him_ cloud Will’s mind and consume him. 

It hurts. Hannibal doesn't try to hide, but he doubts Will can read the pain in his expression. He sighs quietly and nods. Agrees that they need to talk. It was a long time coming, a discussion about Will's feelings, about the guilt he carries. Maybe that's what Will wants to do now. Hannibal needs to give him a chance to open up about it all. 

“I've noticed there's something bothering you today,” Hannibal says, eyes fixed on Will's again. _More than the usual. Do you feel guilty for touching yourself thinking about me?_ is what he really wants to ask. He can't bring himself to do it, doesn't want to admit he heard him. He hopes Will will be honest about what's going through his head. “You know you can tell me anything, Will,” he adds softly. 

Will struggles not to shut his eyes at the sound of Hannibal's voice. The gentle words pierce him deeply, tugging at his heartstrings with their naked sincerity, and he _feels_ it. It's a tempting offer, but he isn't interested in playing defense – it puts Will at a disadvantage, leaves him too vulnerable for his liking. The only way he's going to get any leverage is if he makes this about _Hannibal_ , but he's not sober enough to think that far ahead, not consciously. His inebriation makes him combative. 

"So you can kill me with kindness?" Will purrs, body awash with heat at the look in Hannibal's eyes. Sympathy isn't what he wants. He doesn't care for Hannibal's calmness either. Will wants him as weak as _he_ feels. "No thanks. I'm looking for something else." 

He leaves the bottle on its side, the top on tight and secure. The amber liquid sloshes around the inside of the glass before settling. Will leans in to brace himself on Hannibal's thighs. 

"Answer me this: Why’re you letting me get away with anything I want?" Dark curls fall across Will's eyes as he leans in closer, until he can feel the warmth rolling off of Hannibal's skin. "How about what _you_ want?" 

Hannibal's lips part in surprise, as if he's about to speak – the surge of emotion passes through Will in waves, and he remembers that first night, when he'd claimed that decadent, dangerous mouth. It sends a chill through him to think of it now. He's helpless not to repeat the experience, closing the distance between them, tracing Hannibal's upper lip with his tongue. Then Will seals their mouths together tightly, pouring out all of his desire and desperation into the hot, wet glide of their lips. 

He breaks away only to latch onto Hannibal's throat, leaving marks of teeth all the way to the join of his neck and shoulder. "You're as tame as a kitten," Will whispers, fighting to keep himself balanced upright. He chuckles at the notion. "You'd rather let me walk all over you than admit you want this." 

Hannibal buries his fingers in Will's hair and moans quietly, his free hand grabbing Will's waist. He wants this. He desperately wants this and he's not strong enough to resist it when Will is this close. 

And Hannibal _can_ admit it. He can admit that the reason he lets Will get away with everything is because he loves him too much to stop him. Because he can't say no to Will; because having Will drunk and avoiding him is still better than not having Will at all. Because seeing Will every day is enough to give Hannibal the strength he needs to go on. But Hannibal doesn't think it's the right time to mention these things. 

“Will,” he murmurs as Will sucks a bruise onto his neck. He's ready to protest when Will lifts his head to look at him, but doesn't have the opportunity. Will claims his mouth again, forcing his tongue inside, his fingers pressing tightly into Hannibal's thighs. Hannibal can taste the whiskey. His hand tightens in Will's hair. 

He wishes Will wasn't drunk. Wishes he could turn them over, undress Will and kiss every inch of his body, taste every little part of him. He wishes Will was able to fully consent, to choose this willingly without the influence of alcohol, to enjoy it without having to numb his thoughts and feelings first. Hannibal returns the kiss hungrily, and he feels _weak_. His love and desire for Will are stronger than he could ever hope to be. 

“Will,” he breathes against Will's lips as they part, but doesn't move away. “Will, stop.” 

He doesn't. His name sounds like a plea, but not for cessation. _Don't lie to me_ , Will thinks. _Don't lie to yourself_. Hannibal's words are empty, lacking substance. Just for show and without commitment. It doesn't feel like refusal or dissent... Ardor and appetite, perhaps. A well disguised excitement. 

He isn't fooled. 

Will kisses him harder instead, better judgement overruled. It's sloppy and uncoordinated and every bit as hungry as their first encounter. It doesn't strike him as anything but right. But _good_. 

He can't help himself – with a shudder Will climbs into Hannibal's lap, sitting astride him, caging his thighs between each of his knees.

“You're so _goddamn stubborn_ ," he hisses, but his mouth is on Hannibal again, biting, sucking, kissing along the subtle roughness of his jaw. A hand comes up to pull Hannibal in by his nape, the other sliding down between his legs where he's unquestionably aroused. Will smiles, lopsided and pleased, fingers brushing against the hard line of Hannibal's cock. 

"We'd both feel so much better if you’d just _fuck_ me. I know it's what you want.” It would be so easy. With Will's growing lust and the warm, heavy slackness of his muscles. He's sure it wouldn't even hurt, not like this. "Stress relief. Just, don't... Don't hold it in anymore." 

Hannibal's cock surges at the thought, and he pulls Will closer without even realizing what he's doing. It should bother him how Will sees right through him, how much Will _knows_. Hannibal wants it. He wants Will's hands on him, wants his mouth and his cock, wants to fuck him, wants to be fucked. He wants Will below him, on top of him, around him, inside of him. He wants him _everywhere_.

Hannibal has never wanted anyone as much as he wants Will, and still he knows this isn’t right, this is not how it's supposed to go. They had their first kiss while Will was too drunk to even think. Hannibal still doesn't know if Will remembers. He doesn't want their first time to happen while Will is in the same state. 

He wants to say that, but when he parts his lips to speak Will's mouth is there again, sucking on his tongue and swallowing his moans, and Hannibal is lost in the friction of Will's hand, in the softness of his tongue, so warm and wet against his own. Will bites his lower lip, sucking as he pulls at it softly. 

“Will,” Hannibal tries again, tries to sound more urgent now. It's enough to make Will stop for a moment and look at him. Hannibal gathers enough strength to grab Will's wrists and hold them up, away from his body. “Stop it, Will.” He manages to sound serious now, but he knows he can't lie to him. It's pointless to even try. 

“I want this,” Hannibal admits, and he means it. He wants this, it hurts how much he wants it, the pain constricting his chest and making it hard to breathe. But he needs Will sober, because he needs Will's full consent. He wants Will to remember every detail, and more importantly, he doesn't want Will to regret it. The first time he has sex with Will has to be perfect, because it's too important to him. _Will_ is too important to him. 

“I want you, Will,” he says, because there's no point in lying. Will tries to reach for him but Hannibal holds his wrists tighter, not letting him move. It takes all of his strength to speak the next words, and they only make the pain in his chest worse. “But not tonight. Not like _this_. I don't want you like this.”

Will's eyebrow quirks. The silence between them is thick with tension, and Will stops fighting against Hannibal's grip. He doesn't look away, but openly, he yields. Something in him knows it's the truth. 

"I want _you_. Like this. Like _anything_." It's a quiet admission. His white flag waving in the wind. 

_I want you so much._

Hannibal's hold on his wrists loosens incrementally until he can break free, the stormy grey of Will's eyes darkening with a quiet fury. His blood turns icy, the chill spreading through his veins like frostbite. The cold reaches someplace no amount of whiskey could ever touch, a familiar emptiness greeting him with its yawning maw. 

Another night alone in his bed. He's already craving the taste of bourbon from his bottle again. 

"You've gone soft," Will murmurs, then with a downward glance, "well, most of you." He has plenty of the venom that Hannibal seems to lack. What Will wants is to yell, to scream, curse Hannibal's name and hurt him with violent words, but it's not something he can bring himself to do. 

They were _both_ cowards. 

Will's eyes grow wet, and this time he rips his gaze away. Pride battered, he removes himself from Hannibal with some difficulty, denying any sort of help. It's becoming harder to see, involuntary tears blurring his vision. Alcohol had a tendency to make him weepy when faced with sadness or conflict... Will took after his father that way. He reaches for his whiskey and wipes at his eyes, anger and despair bubbling up inside him. 

With leisure, Will unscrews the cap and finishes the rest of the bottle right in front of Hannibal. He gasps after the last swig, skin clammy with sweat. Hannibal's bedroom feels like a maze, but Will makes his way through, stumbling into the hall. He can still feel eyes on him, but he's too drunk to be ashamed. Rage feels better than embarrassment or sorrow. When Hannibal is fully out of sight, that's when, suddenly, the dam breaks.

Will throws the empty bottle against the wall with all of the strength he can muster, the thick glass smashing into pieces and golden drops of whiskey streaming down to the ground. He makes his way to the safety of his room, slamming the door shut behind him and falling into bed, where he buries his face into the softness of his pillow. 

  
  


Hannibal stares at the ceiling in the dark, his bed feeling strangely cold and lonely tonight. He feels tired, _exhausted_ even, but it's been two hours since Will left and Hannibal can't stop wondering if he's alright. If he's already asleep. Hannibal hasn't heard any noise coming from Will's room since he left. He wonders if Will cried himself to sleep. If Will hates him now. Hannibal can't blame him if he does.

Trying to sleep is an impossible task, so he gets up and wraps a soft white robe around his body before leaving his bedroom, flicking on all the lights of the hall. Hannibal cleans up the mess Will made, picks up the pieces of the broken glass, careful not to hurt himself and as silently as he can. 

He stops by Will's door before he goes back to his own room. Holding his breath, he listens, trying to identify anything that indicates Will could be awake. He can hear Will snoring, a very faint sound. Hannibal grabs the doorknob and turns it slowly, opening the door to see Will, fast asleep in his bed, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Carefully, he approaches Will's bed, pulls the blanket up to cover him, touches his neck with two fingers to feel his pulse. Will doesn't wake up, doesn't notice he's there. He never does. 

There's a sinking feeling in Hannibal's chest as Will's words echo in his mind. ‘ _I want you like this. Like anything_ ’. Hannibal buries his finger in Will's hair, moves them slowly through the strands. Will had wanted him under the influence of alcohol. It wouldn't have been right. _I love you too much to do this without your consent_ , he thinks, leaning in to press his lips to Will's forehead before he turns back to leave. He wants Will to want this, and not because his inhibitions have been chemically lowered or his judgement impaired. 

Hannibal manages to fall asleep at some point before dawn, though he rests fitfully. When he wakes up it's to the early hours of morning, and from a bittersweet dream: of Will's mouth and skillful hands; the phantom taste of bourbon whiskey. The cloying scent of liquor is still on him, still lingering, nearly overwhelming. But if he closes his eyes and focuses, he can still feel the warmth of Will's body, the softness of his lips. Hannibal watches the slow sunrise through his open curtains and wonders what will happen to them now. If Will will remember everything, if he’ll want to talk about it or just drown himself in another bottle of whiskey. 

He takes a long, hot shower to rid himself of the smell of alcohol clinging to his skin, where Will had touched and kissed him. Hannibal decides, with finality, that he won't buy another bottle of whiskey until he and Will have a conversation – a real one this time. 

When it's Will’s turn to awaken, he feels like he's facing recovery all over again. His body is sore, every muscle stiff and aching in protest as he moves to sit up. His limbs feel unpleasantly heavy. Waterlogged. He's a little hungry, and absolutely parched. But he knows he's safe, warm in his bed with a soft wool blanket covering his body. It's not one he remembers seeing before. 

The mess he'd made the previous night is absent when he steps outside his room. In his mind's eye Will can see the image of Hannibal cleaning up pieces of shattered glass, stone-faced, listening to the sounds of him tossing and turning beyond his bedroom door. 

Will showers, braced against the glass of the stall. Brushes his teeth to rid himself of the taste of alcohol. Puts on some clean clothes. In the kitchen, the last bottle of whiskey stares back at him. Will doesn't give in to temptation. He sates himself on coffee with a double shot of espresso, sparkling water and a handful of painkillers. 

Hannibal's face is all the confirmation he needs to assure himself that the night before hadn't been an unfortunate dream. Something in his eyes that looks too familiar, a tired, painful expression that stares back at Will every time he glances in the mirror. 

It hurts to know that the rejection had been real, not just a figment of his imagination... But if that had been real, that made everything else real, too. The love he had felt. The raw desire that was barely hidden from him. Will swears it's the last time he'll use alcohol to cope with his situation. It wasn't helping anyone, only prolonging their deadlock – and Hannibal Lecter was in it for the long haul. 

His own guilt and confusion had come to a head, and in the end it all came back to Hannibal, to his own fear of becoming so enmeshed that he loses himself completely. Perhaps it isn't such a bad thing, Will thinks. It doesn't change the fact that Hannibal has been so strangely subservient, and Will knows it isn't what he wants. What either of them want. If they're going to do this – if they've already consummated whatever it is between them, whatever it is they have together – there has to be a balance. A harmonious give and take. 

Will wants Hannibal to fight for what he wants, not just surrender. It all feels too one-sided that way, but he knows it isn't. Can _feel_ it, even now. Even still.

He tries to distract himself the best he can, but what busies Hannibal does a poor job of holding Will's attention. He can't fish. Can't make lures. It's approaching noontide and Will's eyes reflect the radiance of the sky, clear and bright, without a hint of liquor to cloud his sights. He can only hold it in for so long until he finds Hannibal again. Will catches him in the hall, calls after him, voice steady and unslurred. 

"You win, Hannibal," he says, and Will's arms are outstretched, palms open. He has no weapons. No defenses. "You always say alcohol isn't what I need—I haven't had a drop since last night. I'm done with the whiskey. But I'm not done with you." 

Will leans against the wall, his stance relaxing into something more casual, feet crossing against the floor. "I've thought about everything. Staying. Leaving. Going back. I'm curious what _you_ think I need." _Since you seem to know so well_. Will wonders if Hannibal has his best interest in mind, or if he only sought to benefit himself. 

Hannibal takes a few steps towards him. _Leaving_ , Will had said. _Going back_. This isn’t something Hannibal can accept. He knows exactly what Will needs. Will needs to surrender, to let Hannibal take care of him. Will needs to stop fighting. Will needs to embrace his true self. Hannibal isn't going to let Will leave, not now and not ever. 

“You fight against your own feelings,” Hannibal says, placing both hands on the wall and crowding Will against it. He moves closer, their bodies not quite touching, but close enough that Hannibal can feel the heat of Will's skin. Smell him. No alcohol this time, just Will. It almost makes him feel better. 

“You fight against who you truly are.” Hannibal's voice is lower now. “I know what you want, Will. Your deepest, darkest desires. You know them too.” _They're the same as mine_ , Hannibal thinks. “What you _need_ is to accept them. And to stop _running away._ ”

Something flutters in Will's gut, a sense of danger that spikes his adrenaline. His heartbeat gallops, fast and strong but heavy like a weight – it thrills him to have provoked a reaction in Hannibal. To make him _act_. It's what he's been wanting. 

"And you suppress," Will counters, resisting the urge to touch Hannibal. To reach for him. "You're fighting against yourself just as much as I am—if I'm running then you're _hiding_. You hold yourself back." 

His blood is hot, surging through him with every deafening thud of his pulse. Will finally breaks through the barrier, the distance that separates them, gripping Hannibal's arm. He rucks up his shirt, bringing Hannibal's palm to rest against the scar he'd left him with. His punishment. 

"The last time I defied you, you gave me this. I know you remember. It's a pain I can deal with, but _this_... You wouldn't even _touch_ me." Drunk or not, Hannibal's touch is something he craves. 

But his passive behavior feels akin to detachment. Will knows it bothers him, the drinking, the pity and self-blame. His inability to accept, to face one another head-on and move forward. Yet Hannibal sends messages that are equally as misleading. 

Hannibal looks down at the scar, runs his fingertips over the line of it. He remembers the pain he had felt, the pain they’d felt together. The blood gushing warm against him, staining clothes and skin as they embraced. The shattering of the teacup, of his plans, the happy little fairy tale that he had hoped to make a reality. He remembers it all too well. The pad of Hannibal's thumb caresses the grisly smile with adoration, and he refocuses his gaze.

Will doesn't take his eyes off of him for a second. Hannibal’s touch makes his heart swell. 

"You care more than you let on. I know you followed me the other day. That even when I was drunk, you wanted me." He thinks of the past few days. Of the time he spent with Hannibal, regaining their strength, watching each other heal. It all went downhill when his mind cleared and the guilt bled through. 

“I wanted you when you were drunk,” Hannibal confesses. There is no point in lying, in hiding from the only person who sees right through him. “What you were asking me, however, is not something I would do without your full consent.” Hannibal remembers how it felt to have Will on his lap, kissing him. Begging Hannibal to fuck him. It takes all his strength not to press Will against the wall and kiss him, feel him pressed up against him again. He knows Will can feel it too, can see the hunger in his eyes. But Hannibal holds back, knowing he won't be able to stop once he starts. 

“It's the guilt you feel that's stopping you from doing what you want. From accepting who you are. Embracing it.” Hannibal knows Will needs his help to do it. All this time he's been letting Will deal with everything on his own. He gave Will alcohol and hoped it would help him feel better. Hoped that with time Will would be able to leave his past behind. But Will is right. Hannibal cares. Hannibal feels the same way, needs the same things. And he's been suppressing his own feelings, just as Will has, for too long. Now it's time for both of them to surrender. 

"I'd rather you cut me open again instead of sit back and watch me bury myself," Will continues. "If you know what's best for me, what I need, then _empower_ me. Don't enable me." 

Will still feels guilty for leaving Molly; Walter. For loving a man who kills and sates his appetite on his victims. But none of that matters – what they have goes beyond any and all else. It transcends them. It cannot be replicated. Hannibal is it. _He_ is what Will needs, a fact he can’t deny or sweep under the rug. 

“Let me empower you then,” Hannibal says, leaning in as his hand moves to rest on Will's waist instead, underneath his shirt. He had felt Will's bare skin before, but it had never felt like this. Will feels warm and soft and it's so _intimate_. Hannibal's gaze falls to Will's lips and he licks his own slowly in anticipation. 

It's a moment of perfect clarity. What happens next is unpreventable. Inescapable. There's nothing left for Will to do but yield. 

Tentatively, he draws closer. Stubble brushes softly against Hannibal's jawline, lips hovering over lips as they share the same breath. Their hearts pump in time, suspended in the here and now. Hannibal is perfectly still. 

Will tilts his head, skin ghosting gently across Hannibal's cheekbone, and this time Hannibal chases his mouth. He pulls away just to see how much Hannibal wants him, sees what he wants to see. What he'd _hoped_. Hannibal's eyes glow burnt umber, the color of sunlight-filtered whiskey. Hungry. Desperate. Just the sight of him is intoxicating, and Will drinks his fill. 

He brings his hand up to Hannibal's face, closes his eyes as he leans forward and kisses him. Clear-headed, every nerve in his body electric and alive. Aware. It's slow at first – tasting, savoring. A careful exploration that grows more heated by the second, until Hannibal takes control and their tongues are sliding together, hot and wet and full of promise. Will moans into his mouth.

"I dreamt of you," he pants as they break apart, and he's clutching at Hannibal so tightly, knuckles white against his shirt. "I'm still afraid of who I am when I'm with you. What you do to me. What you _make_ me."

“It makes you feel good,” Hannibal says, breathing heavily against Will's mouth. Hannibal slips his other hand underneath the fabric of Will's shirt, grips him just below his ribs. He squeezes Will's flesh possessively. “You're afraid of feeling the way you felt when we killed The Dragon, because it set you _free_. Afraid of liking it so much you won't be able to stop.” 

Will doesn't deny it, doesn't try to correct him. Hannibal caresses the skin under his thumbs. Will had killed before Dolarhyde. Had admitted it felt good. But actually _embracing_ it, admitting that he wants to kill, finds pleasure in it just as much as Hannibal does, that it's more than just a quiet sense of power is still too much for him. Will still thinks it's wrong. Hannibal knows it. 

“You're afraid of becoming exactly like me,” Hannibal says, and there's just a hint of pain in his voice. It hurts him, knowing that Will has tried so hard to avoid this. Is still avoiding it. “But you're already like me, Will. You just refuse to accept it, clinging to what you think is your humanity.” Lest he forget – humans are animals above all else. 

“You're right," Will whispers. "I am like you. I liked how it felt to be with you then—to do what we did together—so much it scares me. I'll always be chasing that high." 

He turns away for a moment, contemplating. Weighing his thoughts. Hannibal's touch, his presence, is a powerful grounding force. It should make him tense, make him want to protect himself, covering the tender parts of him vulnerable to injury and attack… But Will can only feel his body relaxing. Coaxed into the welcoming heat and darkness of Hannibal's world. They've done all the damage they can do to each other. He could lay it all out on the table. Will knows Hannibal won't judge. 

"I want it again. I want to feel like you're an extension of me." He meets Hannibal's gaze, brings his own hands down to the ones gripping his waist, encircling Hannibal's wrists. "I don't want anymore pangs of conscience for _feeling_. For wanting you. For thinking of you when I—" Will stops himself, skin flushing hot. He tries to calm his breathing. Fingertips dig in hard just above his hips. "When I'm alone." 

There's a flicker of understanding in Hannibal's eyes. It saves Will the embarrassment of being blunt. He eliminates the sliver of space still between them, needs to feel Hannibal close, to feel that he wants him in the same way. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Will moves those elegant hands, positions them to rest against the small of his back, and lower still – until Hannibal is touching him as a lover would. 

"Help me be guiltless," he breathes, and feels as Hannibal shudders against him. This is Will's defeat.

Hannibal presses Will against the wall, pulling him closer at the same time. He buries his face in Will's neck and takes a deep breath, inhaling Will's scent. His heart is pounding in his chest, pressed tightly against Will's. He exhales. Kisses Will's neck softly. It feels so good it's almost overwhelming. It's almost surreal to have Will like this, to finally be able to touch him. To know that Will is choosing this, and doing so while _sober_. It's all Hannibal has ever wanted. 

“I heard you,” Hannibal tells him, and smiles against his skin before looking back into Will's eyes. “That night when you were in the shower. I came back to make sure you were alright. I heard you.” Hannibal doesn't specify what he heard. He's sure Will knows. He wonders if Will had dreamt about him that night. 

“I want to hear you like that again,” he confesses. If they're going to talk about feelings, he might as well be honest about his own. Now that Will is sober, there's no reason for Hannibal to say no. No reason to reject him. He squeezes Will's flesh, presses his body against Will's a bit more tightly. It's still not close enough. “But with no walls between us. I want to _make you_ sound like that.”

It's almost enough to make Will whimper. Almost. He learns quickly that he doesn't _need_ the whiskey in Hannibal's presence, the heady cocktail of hormones and chemicals making him drunk with pleasure faster than any kind of liquor he could consume. Will arches into Hannibal's embrace, excitement and relief flooding his veins. 

He imagines Hannibal must be even more touch-starved than he is – three years with no close, intimate contact. A thick glass wall, impossibly wide, and five locked, reinforced doors separating him from the outside world. He must be awash with sensation. Dying for release. 

Hannibal’s restraint is impressive to say the least. 

It makes Will want to give him _more_ , and he does, smiling wolfishly and eager for reciprocation. 

"Want me to be loud?" he purrs, hands snaking around Hannibal's hips, making their way to the buckle of his belt. He never wants Hannibal to take his hands off him. It's the same way he's always felt – the alcohol just isn't making decisions for him anymore.

Will’s mouth finds Hannibal's throat, face tucked underneath his chin where he wreaks havoc with tongue and teeth. He nips at the scars there, can swear he feels Hannibal's heart skip a beat. His own sends blood rushing to all the places that count. Another perk of sobriety. He pulls back. 

“You can touch me, Hannibal. I’ll let you hear me all you want. No walls. No boundaries. Just us.” 

Hannibal moans softly in response, his hands moving up the planes of Will's back beneath his clothes, fingers ghosting across every inch of smooth, warm skin. It's not enough. He needs Will naked, pressed up against him on his bed. He needs to touch, and feel and taste. He _does_ want Will to be loud. 

Will lifts his chin, baring himself willingly, and Hannibal turns ravenous. He leans in to nose along the peaks and notches of his throat, and then he's sucking tingling love marks, biting and soothing the imprints with his tongue. His teeth graze across his skin as he feels Will finally, hastily, undoing his belt. Hannibal shudders, cock jerking inside its confines, fully, achingly hard. It takes all his strength to hold back, but they're not going to give each other handjobs against a wall. This is their first time. It's supposed to be special. Hannibal wants to be slow, gentle. He wants to make Will feel good. 

“Bedroom,” he murmurs against Will's ear, then presses another heated kiss to Will's neck. His nails scratching lightly against his back and Will arches against him again, a quiet, soft noise escaping his throat. Hannibal wants him, needs him. He can barely believe this is happening. 

“Come to bed with me.” As if Will needs more convincing, Hannibal’s lips brush against his stubble and their mouth meet again. This time it's brief, just the soft glide of their lips. Hannibal inhales as Will exhales, breathing his air. _Finally_ , he thinks. Will is _his_ , in every way. Hannibal has never loved him more. 

He reaches down for Will's hand, takes it in his, and pulls Will into his bedroom. 

Will presses back against the door, shutting it slowly behind them before shucking off his t-shirt. Fingers work to unbutton his chinos and he pulls them down over the swell of his backside. He steps out of them completely, and Will doesn't care if he leaves a trail of clothes. He's waited too long for this. 

He keeps his hair up for convenience's sake – and because the bite of Hannibal's sharp teeth at his throat makes his toes curl. Will is back in Hannibal's arms in an instant. 

"Did you touch yourself while you were pent up in the BSHCI?" he asks, slipping Hannibal's belt out of its loops. He hadn't been incarcerated long enough to have to resort to it himself, but three years was a long time for anyone to wait. 

He wonders who occupied Hannibal's thoughts. If it made him selfish to think it was him. Not Alana. Not Bedelia. _Him_. 

Will gets Hannibal's pants undone, and he can _see_ how hard he is. How excited. "Hold that thought." 

He has to touch him, skin on skin. Slips his hand underneath the waistband of Hannibal's fancy briefs and takes hold of him. Thick, heavy and hot with blood. Hannibal moans, hips twitching, and Will never wants to let go. There's a chance he has enough residual alcohol in his bloodstream to fuel his boldness for a lifetime. 

Will kisses him breathless as he smooths his thumb over the head of Hannibal’s cock, the pad of it coming away wet. He would get on his knees, worship Hannibal the way he wants to if he were any good at it. Will's been told he has a gifted mouth. He doesn't have much experience with sucking, but he knows how to touch someone. How to read the signs, little hints and clues until he's taking them apart with pleasure alone. 

Hannibal clings to Will, holding him close. His hands slide under his underpants to rest against Will’s backside, and he attacks his neck with more bites, not as soft as before. Hannibal feels Will reaching back inside of his briefs to touch him, spreading precome along his shaft, and his moans get muffled against his skin. He pushes Will’s undershorts down, exposing him completely. It’s not enough.

“I did,” Hannibal finally breathes in answer, hot against Will’s throat. He moves one of his hands between them to wrap around Will’s cock. It’s the first time Hannibal’s touched him like this while he’s hard, and he feels the vibration in Will’s throat as he moans. Hannibal’s sharp teeth sink into his flesh again, almost drawing blood this time. There will be a time for them to talk about Will’s feelings, about the guilt he may still face after spending the night with Hannibal, about everything that stops him from being who he wants to be. There will be a time to explore all of this, to find a way to make it better. But for now all Hannibal wants is the warmth of Will’s body, his moans, his hands and mouth on him. It’s all he needs.

“I did touch myself while I was there.” Hannibal’s voice is low, rough with arousal. “I thought about you every single time.” He knows it’s exactly what Will wants to hear, and it’s the truth. “But I must confess, Will,” he continues, and sucks another bruise against Will’s throat. Will won’t be able to leave the house without a scarf for days. Hannibal plans on keeping him covered in love bites all the time from now on. “I’ve touched myself thinking about you ever since we met. Even when I was with other people.”

Will can feel himself straining against the cotton of his underwear, and Hannibal isn't nearly naked enough. He captures Will’s lips again before he can reply, and they moan into each other’s mouths. Hannibal stops touching Will just to step out of his own clothes from the waist down, pants and briefs discarded, and Will’s hands find their way to his chest to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

Hannibal bites Will’s bottom lip before pulling back, and he slides the shirt off his shoulders. It lands in a messy heap with the rest of his clothes, and for the first time, Hannibal doesn’t care about the state of them. He grabs Will’s hand and guides him in the direction of the bed.

They fall onto the mattress, Hannibal on his back and Will on top of him, and he can't bear a minute without feeling his skin. His hands smooth over Will’s shoulder blades, their cocks touch and Hannibal thrusts up against him, moaning with the friction.

There's a tightening in Will's gut, a surge of arousal that rushes through him at the sounds and sensations. It's something he's felt before in regards to Hannibal, but never this strongly. This purely. He shudders at the swell of Hannibal's cock against his own, warm and throbbing – he has to look down at him, at _them_. It's not a surprise to see that this part of Hannibal is beautiful like the rest of him, perfect in the way it feels. They look like they belong together, bodies held against one another as if custom made to fit. 

Will wants even more. His throat feels dry but he's close to begging. 

"Do you have—" 

"In the nightstand," Hannibal breathes.  
It makes Will's heart beat faster, fluid beading at the tip of his cock. _God_. He's reluctant to separate, but his own eagerness spurs him on. 

The surface is polished mahogany. Will stands in front of the nightstand wearing nothing but the gold band around his ring finger. He slips it off right before Hannibal’s eyes, looks to him as he sets it down with a soft _chink_ against the wood. Will wonders if he's rendered him speechless, but they don't need words for this. His gaze speaks for itself: _I don't belong to anyone but you_. 

It's almost too much for Hannibal, leaves him paralyzed with the knowledge that Will wants this just as much as he does. Watching him take off his wedding ring – the only thing from the past Will still owns – and shedding it like a molting animal, growing into its new skin. It’s the proof that Will is finally his, _wants_ to be his, after all this time. 

Will turns his attention back to his task. There's a small bottle of lubricant in the first and only drawer, various drawing instruments, more pads of paper. Will takes the lube out and closes the drawer, flashes a brief smile at Hannibal’s appreciative stare.

He crawls back into the luxurious bed, settles on his side and pops the cap. The substance has a sweet smell as Will squeezes a generous amount out into his palm. He strokes himself and Hannibal turns and bring them closer, front to front. Finally, Will wraps his fingers around Hannibal, then the both of them together. He can't stop watching Hannibal's face, how he looks so enraptured, like nothing could be better than this. 

And nothing _is_ better than this, nothing can compare to Will, warm and soft and solid against him, wanting him, _needing_ him just as much as Hannibal does. As Hannibal has for all these years. Will’s accepted him. Will loves him, and it makes Hannibal feel overwhelmed with emotion. With _love_ , so much love it makes him feel radiant, happy as he's never been before. He thinks about the times he’s lost Will – the time he left Will behind, the time Will rejected him. Now there's no more pain, no more hurting each other. No more separation. Only Will, himself, and their all-giving, all-consuming love. 

Hannibal stops, just pressing his face against Will's skin as he breathes heavily and tears fill his eyes. He doesn't want to let Will see them, but doubts he won't notice the way he trembles slightly in Will's arms, breath shaking. 

Will keeps him as near as he can, clutching at him tightly, and it paints a familiar picture. Without the blood and bruising, a quiet intensity, though they gasp and pant with heavy breaths at the touch of one another. 

He feels Hannibal against him, a soft quaking, and squeezes. Tightens his grip and slows his movements in an effort to distract. 

" _Hannibal_ ," Will sighs, and the fingers of his free hand grip the short hairs at his nape. Hannibal pulls back for them to nuzzle their faces close, lips and noses brushing. He kisses him gently, with just the barest edge of desperation bleeding through. 

"Are you okay?”

“I love you,” Hannibal replies breathlessly against Will's mouth, and it's the first time he’s said it directly, the first time he’s uttered these three words to Will out loud. He heaves a sigh and then kisses Will again, hums softly into his mouth, not giving him time to answer. He slides a hand between their bodies to trace the line of Will’s scar with his fingertips as he catches Will's bottom lip between his teeth. It feels like heaven. 

Hannibal's hand travels up Will's torso, caressing his chest, brushing across the stiff peaks of his nipples, the tips of his fingers roaming over warm skin. Hannibal moves up until he reaches the back of Will's neck. Resting his hand there, he breaks the kiss and shifts to press one to Will's forehead instead, lips ghosting over the scar he left there three years ago. His eyes are wet as he closes them, heart beating fast in his chest. 

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal repeats against Will's skin. _More than anything in the universe_ , he thinks, pulling back to stare into Will's eyes. 

It takes a moment to register. The words – to hear him _say_ them – Will's breath catches in his throat. He's defenseless in their wake, and they ruin him, settling into Will's heart, deep and blissful. Spreading through his body and his limbs like a slow-acting drug, Hannibal's love washes over him as it always has, but this time it's a comfort. A weighted blanket that grounds and covers him. Will swallows, throat tight. 

His eyelids flutter closed.

"I know," he says, and he can't help but shiver with anticipation. He never thought he'd find himself here, that these words or feelings would be welling up inside him… But this is Hannibal. Of course it was bound to be this way, 

It comes pouring out like water: "— _love_ you. I love you. Hannibal, I..." 

Hannibal captures his mouth, and this time the hunger overwhelms them. Ravenous swipes of their tongues, the bite and tug of teeth, sucking and soft lips. Will moans at the sweet exchange of breath, of heat and slickness. He has to stop his stroking altogether, approaching the edge at an embarrassing speed. 

"Hannibal," Will gasps between smoldering kisses. He needs more than this somehow. Needs to be closer. “I want it. _Please_.” He can hardly breathe, skin beading sweat, hot and sticky. "Please fuck me." 

Hannibal groans into Will's mouth, sucks on Will's tongue hungrily, thrusts against him to rub their cocks against each other, seeking more friction. He knows they won't go all the way – it would take too long to prepare Will properly, requiring composure he knows they don't have. He doubts either of them can last long enough to make it a worthwhile reality. Still, he murmurs an agreement into Will's mouth and pulls Will's leg up, wrapping it around his waist. Hannibal knows of other ways. 

“Lube,” he says against Will's lips, and Will reaches behind himself for the small bottle. He squeezes some onto Hannibal's extended fingers, coating them liberally, then closes the cap and lets the bottle fall back on top of the covers.

Will shifts to give him better access, and Hannibal reaches down to press the tip of his finger against his hole. It's just a light pressure, but it makes Will moan softly and arch into him. Hannibal presses harder, his finger making circular movements to relax him, work him open. He kisses Will again as they move together, Will's moans muffled by Hannibal's tongue inside his mouth. 

It nearly undoes him, the silky glide of lubricant and the heat of their cocks together, the tight, fevered stroking that brings him right back to the brink of release. Will feels it even stronger than before, coiling sharp like barbed wire beneath his belly, muscles gradually beginning to tense even as Hannibal coaxes him to loosen up. To accept him.

Hannibal keeps rubbing, keeps circling and stroking over his hole until Will is keening and pushing back against him. He finally slides his finger inside, pressing in just enough to have Will’s spine arching even further, until he thinks, teeth bared, that it might snap. Will is so aroused that the penetration doesn't make his erection flag, only encourages him to let go. Hannibal's touch is achingly deliberate, slow enough to be excruciating and yet it’s not nearly enough, not yet.

Will doesn't realize he's been begging for more until one digit becomes two, firmly massaging against a place that makes him melt. They begin to pump gently in and out of his hole, his cock hot and wet and sliding against Hannibal’s, and Will knows he's not going to last long like this. _This_ is closer to what he wants, bordering dangerously on too much now, and just when Will thinks he can't take any more there are _three_ fingers filling him up. Stretching him open. Steady, deliberate thrusts into the heat of his body that squelch and leave him boneless – passing maddeningly over his prostate, Will has never felt anything like it before. 

Their hearts hammer together, hips bucking and rolling, sending them barreling toward a desperate finish. Will's leg tightens around Hannibal, heel digging into his backside, then the small of his back as he's hitched higher around Hannibal’s waist. He feels faint with the fullness moving inside of him, with their fevered kissing, the rapid gasps of breath he steals that signal his own orgasm. 

Hannibal’s digits plunge into him faster, harder, until Will can't hold on anymore. He comes with a sob – huffing ragged breaths into the crook of Hannibal's neck as he spills messily between them, his hole spasming and squeezing tight around slick, still-thrusting fingers. 

Triggered by Will’s release, Hannibal follows him faithfully to completion. He lets out a loud groan as he comes, cock pulsing while he presses even tighter against Will. Pearlescent streaks of his spend stripe Will’s belly, and Hannibal stops moving, pulls his fingers out of Will's body carefully to touch his backside instead. He grips a generous handful of one of his cheeks, then caresses it softly. His fingers slip down along the cleft of Will’s buttocks to trace over where he's still twitching with pleasure, still gaping slightly for him, the sensitive skin where he opens pink and slick with lubricant. Hannibal withdraws his hand, lets Will settle as he looks into his eyes again. He moves closer still, until their foreheads are touching. 

“I have thought about this many times,” Hannibal says, his voice almost a whisper. He still sounds breathless. “Spent hours, days in my memory palace, only with you.” It's easy to admit it now, to let Will see him completely. This is what they are now. They're open to each other, connected. They are one. 

“This was better than I could have imagined,” he says then, warm breath against Will's lips. He slowly trails his fingers along Will's spine, across skin damp with sweat, watching his face. 

Will is still recovering. He releases a shaky exhale at the teasing ghost of a touch, body shuddering in post-climactic bliss. He's curious what kind of conjured scenarios Hannibal has entertained in the past. The contents of his most private thoughts featuring just the two of them, and how they played out in his mind. He's pleased to know it can't compare to the real thing.

"Did it take longer than you imagined?" Will asks once he can breathe again, lips curled in a lazy smile. His chest rises and falls in tandem with Hannibal's heavy breaths. 

A part of him is tempted to stay like this, not to move a muscle and simply enjoy the comedown, the gradually fading buzz of sex. It's a small blessing they didn't try to do more despite his pleas – Will had been teetering on the verge of overwhelmed as it was. But overwhelmed was exactly how he _wanted_ to feel. Overcome with sensation, both emotional and physical... The fruit of many years of longing. He’s thankful he won't have a hangover to worry about in the morning. Perhaps a not unpleasant, satisfying sort of soreness at most. 

Hannibal kisses him with leisure, as if they have all the time in the world. Perhaps they do. 

"It took as long as it needed to," he answers. 

When they can no longer stand the mess drying on their skin, they retreat to the bathroom and shower together. Will cleans them both off carefully, lathers them up and rinses them underneath the spray. Hannibal lets Will's hair down, massaging his scalp in return. He gently washes the dark curls that frame Will's face and cling wetly to his neck. Wrings the water from them. The two emerge warm and wet, skin flushed and bodies even more relaxed. 

They dry and fall back into bed bare, with nothing between them. They've waged their war. The conflict is over, and they can begin anew. 

Peacefully, they sleep.


	3. Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update, we've been busy with life and other projects, but [#NovemberAmnesty](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/151623911014) encouraged us to finally finish No Man's Land this month. :)

Blood drips from the knife as Will pulls it out of their victim's chest. Will's clothes and gloved hands are covered in blood, and Hannibal smiles as Will stands up, leaving the victim dead on the kitchen floor. He watches him, entranced. It's the first person they’ve killed after Dolarhyde, but this time Will has done it on his own, and they have no injuries to account for. 

It took Will two years before he felt ready to kill again. To accept that he wanted it, craved it just as much as Hannibal. The man had deserved his fate, just the right kind of rude for their tastes. They’d lured him into their home under the guise of a dinner invitation – it was easier like this. He did not survive long enough to have dessert. 

“Beautiful,” Hannibal says as Will places the knife on the counter and approaches him, an approving smile on his lips. His hands rest on Will's chest for a moment before he begins to undo the buttons of his white shirt, now painted red with their victim's blood. It does not look black under fluorescent lights. The thought amuses him. 

He finishes unbuttoning the garment, knows it's ruined now, but he will buy Will as many new shirts as he desires if only to watch him kill just the way he did tonight. His chest swells with pride and love for what Will has become, for what he's helped Will become. His hands trail down Will's sides underneath the blood-soaked fabric of his buttondown, smearing more crimson across his skin, and Will pants against Hannibal's lips. 

Hannibal feels lost for words. Everything they went through, all of the pain and turmoil, was worth it, and now they had _everything_. He'd watched Will become so much more than what he was; they had become so much more together. He leans in and presses his lips softly to Will's, closing his eyes and letting Will breathe into him. 

Surprisingly tender in the wake of his wrath, Will's shoulders sag, muscles going slack as he relaxes into the gentle brush of Hannibal's lips against his own. He smiles into the kiss, deepens it as he peels off his gloves and lets them fall to the floor, a wet _smack_ against the tile. Will takes Hannibal's face in his hands, palms warm and dry, cradling him softly. Encouraged by the warmth and sweetness of his mouth, he partakes of him until he has to pull back for air. 

"How did I do?" Will breathes against Hannibal's lips, and he caresses the sharp angles of his jawline with soothing strokes of his thumbs. 

Hannibal has never heard words more beautiful, has never seen anything as breathtaking as Will as he is in this moment. He is a sight to behold, dripping scarlet red, eyes bright and wild, fresh from a cathartic kill with all of his righteous violence on display. The harsh, metallic stench of blood is sharp and thick in his nostrils, but it only adds to the glory of Will's composition. He is vibrant, radiant, and the image sears itself into Hannibal's memory. 

Will is godlike, a vengeful deity and yet here he was, waiting breathless for Hannibal's approval. 

“Perfect,” Hannibal whispers in awe, and Will can feel his love, can see it in Hannibal's eyes as he pulls back slightly just to look at him. “You were glorious. You _are_ glorious. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever watched, and even better than I expected. I'm so proud of you, Will.”

Will gasps softly as Hannibal grabs his waist and pulls him closer, not caring if his own shirt gets stained with blood. Hannibal leans in to speak close to Will's ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his neck. 

“Blood suits you,” he says in a low voice. It's only to tease, but the truth is he could spend the night telling Will all the reasons why he loves him, lavishing him with praise. Hannibal thinks it's better to just show him his love instead. He bites the spot he just kissed, squeezing Will's flesh between his teeth. His breath is hot against Will's skin. 

“You smell of triumph,” Hannibal continues, and he wonders if ichor flows through those veins. “And exertion. It's very enticing.”

Will lifts an eyebrow, but his answering chuckle is smooth and sweet in Hannibal's ear. He isn't sure he can agree – his own nose smells only the tang of drying, coppery blood and sweat, but he knows Hannibal can pick up the scent of his elation.

"You can't help yourself, can you?" Will whispers, pleased, knowing the truth of his words and still amazed by the knowledge. 

A hand slides down to Hannibal's chest, resting over his heart and its sure, steady beating. His mouth curls in his delight, and he noses affectionately along his lover's neck. He wants to feel Hannibal closer than this. Often, Will gets what he wants. 

"I'd rather if you couldn't help yourself in the shower," he adds, and after a small pause: "and I'd rather smell like _you_." 

Will can feel Hannibal's heart beat faster, and then slips easily out of his hold. All it takes is one come hither look and Hannibal follows obediently, pulled by the magnetism of Will's desires, trailing closely on his heels up the stairs and into the bathroom. 

Hannibal shuts the door behind them with a _click_ , returning to the heat and comfort of Will's body. To his intoxicating closeness, a drug he knows he's helpless to resist. Worshipfully, he slips Will's shirt from his bloodstained shoulders, divesting him of pants and undershorts. He only leaves his side reluctantly to turn on the water, ridding himself of his own clothes to Will's rapt attention. 

It doesn't take long for the spray to warm up, and with a playful smirk Will ducks into the shower, knowing Hannibal will waste no time coming in after him.

Hannibal's arms wrap around him from behind, his chest pressed against Will's back. He feels Will relaxing in his arms, and he kisses the back of his neck softly, lips grazing his skin as Hannibal breathes him in. Hannibal thinks about killing someone with Will, then taking him to bed while they're still covered in blood. He thinks about making Will bleed instead, tasting him, pure and untainted by the blood of another. 

“I can make you smell like me tonight, if that's what you wish,” Hannibal promises, his voice a deep purr next to Will's ear. He wants to smell like Will, too, wants them to become one. Hannibal only pulls back to reach for the shower gel, but once he gets a bit of it in his hand, he returns to his previous position. Hannibal's hands move slowly across Will's chest, washing the blood from his skin, the spray of water keeping them both warm. 

Will hums softly, appreciating Hannibal's touch, relaxing even more against him. Hannibal's hands slide down to Will's belly, caressing him and at the same time making sure Will isn't hurt. His hands travel all the way up again, soap-slick fingers gently brushing against Will's nipples. 

“Is there a specific way you want to make yourself smell of me?” Hannibal asks. His lips tickle Will's skin as he speaks, and his fingers brush Will's nipples harder, teeth scraping against his neck. Hannibal knows how to tease him, and Will is _asking_ for it. And Hannibal happily gives anything he asks for. 

Will breathes a sweet sigh into the heat of the air, thick and humid with steam. His cock thickens optimistically, encouraged by the press of Hannibal along his backside and the tempting slide of his hands. They move again to rub along his abdomen, a rich lather forming across his stomach only to be rinsed away with the congealed blood. Fingertips skim over the raised tissue of his scar, and Will groans. 

He turns around in Hannibal's arms, slating his mouth over his, tasting the drops of water that cling to his lips. There’s a certain desperation that Will feels, an aching to please and be pleased, but he is alight with the satisfaction of Hannibal’s pride in him. His arms come up to loop around Hannibal's neck and pull him closer, and he gasps softly at the brush of a half-mast cock, wet against his own. 

Will has a few ideas. 

"I want you in me," he pants, arching into every touch. Streaks of muted red and pink swirl down the drain, water beating down hot against their softened skin. "I want to feel like I can't escape you. To feel your sweat on my skin. I want your body covering every inch of mine.” 

“I shall give you everything you wish for, my darling,” Hannibal murmurs against Will's lips, his hands now on Will's back, fingertips sliding up and down his skin. “You do deserve a reward, after all,” he says playfully, smiling briefly just before kissing Will again. 

It's a slow but heated kiss, and they pull each other even closer, hands roaming over every inch of flesh they can reach as the water sluices over them. They only pull back, breathless, to finish their shower. They wash their hair and bodies, suds cascading down slippery skin, aided by the warm glide of hands. Not wanting to waste time, they soon step out of the fogged glass of the stall, still dripping wet as they grab their towels. 

Hannibal doesn't let Will get dry. He steps closer, wraps an arm around his waist and proceeds to lick and suck the droplets from the skin of Will's neck; feels Will shivering against him as their bare, half-hard cocks touch. 

“I want to take you to bed immediately,” Hannibal says, reasoning that the dead body on their kitchen floor can wait. They don't plan to make a meal of their kill, and it isn't going anywhere. It can be taken care of later. 

Everything else is unimportant – the only thing that matters to him right now is Will, his body and his mind, and the love Hannibal feels for him. He starts pulling Will to the bedroom, the two of them still mostly wet, drops of water falling from Will's hair onto his face, and Hannibal can't take his eyes off of him. 

Will huffs a laugh as they fall into bed, limbs tangling together, warm and familiar. Hannibal settles over him, a comforting weight tethering him to this moment. He couldn't stray from it if he wanted to. Will finds relief in Hannibal's arms, solace in the intensity of his love, the overwhelming joy that bleeds through him uncurbed. He wouldn't trade anything for this, unable to imagine ever being numb to this rush of emotion, his mind clouded by unnatural intoxicants. 

"Next time I won't wait," Will says, grabbing a fistful of straight, damp hair and bringing his lips to Hannibal's ear. "I'll make you just as dirty—take you from behind while the blood's still warm. Leave my handprints on your hips." 

His other hand slides down the muscled plane of Hannibal's back. With a satisfying thrill, Will can feel how his words affect him. He seals his mouth over Hannibal's, intent on communicating his own eagerness and desperation: lips parting, their tongues meet in a wet, hot slide, slow and savoring the taste they've come to crave more than any other. Their bodies are fragrant and radiate heat, clean sweat and water vapor dispersed evenly across smooth skin. 

Water drips from Hannibal's brow and against Will's neck, and his eyelashes flutter closed. Though his body is at peace, his mind's eye still sees red. He visualizes the scene as it must have looked from Hannibal's perspective, sees himself killing their prey and relishing every brutal second. Will pulls back and licks his lips. 

"What were you thinking as I was killing him?" he asks, his cock swelling to fullness, curved and leaking against his stomach. 

“Many things,” Hannibal says, leaning in to mouth at Will's neck again. He can never get enough of it, of Will's smell and his warmth, and the pulse under his skin. It's all he needs in life. “I couldn't help but compare tonight to the night we killed The Dragon.” They had been two completely different nights, two completely different victims, Hannibal knows it. But there's something about Will that didn't change. 

“You were unrestrained,” Hannibal tells him, adoration clear in his voice. He can still see it in his mind, how Will had killed their guest mercilessly, his eyes glowing with a hunger for blood Hannibal had seen before. That Will had tried to suppress for too long. “Two years ago you said you'd always be chasing that high. It was good to see you giving in to your instincts again.”

Hannibal presses another kiss to Will's neck, lips lingering over his pulse point, breathing heavily against his skin. He lowers his hand to touch Will's cock, fingertips stroking along the length of it slowly just to tease, making it twitch and gleam with wetness at its tip. He knows Will expects him to continue talking. He does. 

“I fantasized about us eating him,” Hannibal tells him, caressing the head of Will's cock. His own is pressed insistently against Will's thigh, but Hannibal doesn't need much more than this for now. His hunger is all about Will, about _touching_ Will. He's mostly focused on Will's pleasure tonight. “About watching you cutting out the organs, choosing which part of him we'd prepare for dinner.” 

Hannibal's lips curl into a smile against Will's neck. They won't eat this man, not when they're too busy pleasuring each other, but it's nice to think about it. Hannibal knows that Will will want to kill again soon, and next time they will do it together. He will let Will fuck him while the blood is still warm just the way Will wants to. His fingers wrap around Will's cock, and he squeezes lightly, making Will moan. 

“I thought about how red his blood looked,” he says, moving down to kiss and nip at Will's collarbone. “I imagined you killing him in the moonlight. Us, doing it together again…” Hannibal sucks a darkening bruise into Will's skin, his thumb rubbing against the head of Will's cock, slick with precome. “Touching you like this, outside at night while we're covered in blood, with no regard for the neighbors.” 

He never stops kissing Will's skin as he moves down, until he reaches the scar on Will's belly, the one that means the most. The one he loves the most. “Among other things, I was thinking about how much you and I are the same. How lucky I am to have found you.” Hannibal mouths at Will's skin along the line of the scar, sucking lightly, and feels Will leak even more onto his fingers. His hand slides down to the base, and Hannibal moves away from the scar to lap at the tip of Will's cock, humming softly as he tastes him. 

“Please see if you can reach the lube on the nightstand,” Hannibal says before taking just the head of Will's cock in his mouth with a light suction. 

Will's brow furrows, breath hitching on a sharp intake. He tries to keep his hips still, pushed down against the mattress, but Hannibal knows exactly how to have him unraveling at the seams. Following directions is a challenge. He's torn between letting his head fall back against the bed and tucking his chin to his chest, so he can watch with half-lidded eyes as his cock disappears past the tight seal of Hannibal's lips. 

He swears he'll never tire of this, Hannibal's mouth on him: the heat and slickness and _friction_ , the pressure of his tongue and, sometimes, just the barest graze of keen teeth – a looming, ever-present threat. It's an incredible sensation that makes his toes curl and spikes his adrenaline. 

Will breathes a curse, fighting the desire to push the rest of the way into Hannibal's mouth. Instead he reaches for what they need, muscles shifting underneath the surface of his skin as his body stretches. He pulls open the drawer and fumbles inside – by now he's memorized the size and shape of the small bottle, smooth plastic with just a bit of weight in his palm. He grabs it and shoves the drawer back in, hissing in pleasure as Hannibal takes him deeper.

It's hard to imagine that this was part of the war he used to wage against himself. 

"Hannibal," Will gasps, and it's difficult to focus on anything but the feel of Hannibal teasing him with flicks of his tongue, gripping him firmly and lowering himself down, achingly slow. 

He swallows around him and Will moans, low and broken, back arching and chest heaving with every breath. Will only just manages to bring his hand down and drop the bottle against the bed, where it sinks into the comforter beside Hannibal's body. The fingers of his other hand card through the soft strands of Hannibal's hair, tugging slightly as he pulls off of him to nuzzle against the base of his cock.

The way Will responds is beautiful, and Hannibal craves more. He pulls back just to grab the bottle of lube and open it, then spreads some of it onto two fingers. He adjusts his position between Will's legs and touches Will's perineum with the tips of his lubed fingers, caressing softly. Will moans again, and Hannibal increases the pressure. He kisses Will's thigh, then puts more lube on his fingers. As he refocuses his attention to Will's cock, his fingers slide down to his hole, circling the tight ring of muscle and pressing in gently, making Will relaxed and open for him. 

“I want to touch you like this for hours,” Hannibal murmurs against the base of Will's cock, then licks it up to the tip, where he takes it in his mouth again. Will moans louder and Hannibal easily slides one finger into him, sucking on the head of his cock at the same time, swallowing his precome. Will is _delicious_. Hannibal wants _everything_. 

He makes eye contact with Will, watching him as he takes him in deeper, a second finger pushing inside Will's body, slowly but firmly. Will pulls his hair harder, arching his back, but Hannibal doesn't relent, only increasing the suction and moving his fingers insistently into Will. 

"Fuck," Will groans, and the threads of his composure are fraying dangerously thin. 

This time he does let his head fall back against the mattress, curls fanning out around him like a dark halo. One hand is buried in Hannibal's hair, the other desperately fisting the sheets, and he can do little else but writhe under his touch. He bucks up into Hannibal's mouth and then rolls his hips back, sinking down onto the fingers steadily working him open. They press in deeper each time, and it feels so good that Will's breath catches harshly. 

The thought of Hannibal doing this for hours is something that both excites and intimidates him. _Maybe another time_ , he thinks. _Not now_. Will knows he can't wait that long. 

"I need you," he says, just a whisper, but he knows it will inflame Hannibal's hunger. 

He doesn't bother to lift his head, throat bared invitingly, and when he swallows his Adam's apple jumps. His skin is littered with purpling marks: the sweet cruelty of Hannibal's mouth. He needs more, needs to feel himself surrendering to what he once fought so hard against. Will pulls his legs up and bites his lip, too wanton in his display to look Hannibal in the eye. 

But Hannibal's eyes are fixed on Will, and he groans around Will's cock before pulling back and letting it slide out of his mouth. The pads of his fingers brush against Will's prostate as he pulls them out, and Hannibal can't wait any longer. He reaches for the lube again, and this time he quickly slicks himself up before letting the small bottle fall on the bed again and positioning himself on top of Will. 

Will is watching him with half-lidded eyes now, and they breathe heavily into each other as Hannibal leans in to kiss his lips softly. Hannibal takes himself in hand to guide his cock into Will slowly, tearing small breathy moans from him as Will stretches to accommodate him. Hannibal doesn't stop until he's buried deep inside and Will's legs wrap tightly around his waist. 

“Is this how you need me?” Hannibal asks, moving his hips to pull almost all the way out of Will just to sink back in again, and Will groans in response, arching underneath his body. Hannibal takes the opportunity to attack his neck, mouthing at it again, sucking and biting as he slowly moves into Will. 

Will huffs a breath against Hannibal's ear, hands scrabbling to claw at the blades of his shoulders. 

"Yes," he hisses, and yields, as always, to the steady undulations of his lover's hips. To the teeth at his throat that make him moan unabashedly, knowing that Hannibal can feel the vibrations against his mouth. "You know it is." 

Will savors the slowness at first, almost gentle – the intent is good, to make this last, draw it out for the both of them. But he knows that soon they'll be helpless to resist the pleasure like flames licking at their insides. Will can feel it already, the urge to have so _much_ of Hannibal that even their bodies begin to blur. 

He opens his mouth to whine, to beg for more, but there's no need to voice his desires out loud – Hannibal can read Will’s every reaction, his body a map with a million destinations, and he has savored every one. Instead Will lets out a choked sob when Hannibal shoves inside of him, once, then again, and his thrusts are harder now, more deliberate. They leave Will panting and alive.

They've done this many times, familiarizing themselves with one another so that they could chart each other’s bodies with their eyes closed. They've fit together in every possible way, exploring endless configurations in which they could give and receive pleasure, all for themselves.

But Will can't get enough of how Hannibal loves him, how he worships and rewards him for a job well done. Hannibal has always seen perfection in Will, only seeking to have him recognize his own potential and the great heights they could reach together. It's impossible not to think of this every time: how they'll come together after they've killed. How they'll submit, but only to each other. 

Hannibal's groans sound muffled against Will's neck, and he continues biting and kissing Will's skin, the speed of his thrusts increasing. Their bodies fit together perfectly and they move as one, as if they were made for each other. Hannibal believes they were. 

He lifts his head just to capture Will's lips instead, humming softly as they part for him and their tongues touch. Hannibal swallows Will's desperate moans, then pulls almost all the way out just to drive his cock back into him, and Will arches under his body again, groaning loud as their lips part. He rubs sweetly against Will's prostate, knowing exactly how to move and where to touch. He knows he can make Will come untouched just like this.

“You're perfect,” Hannibal whispers, as he always does, against Will's lips. “Beautiful… you feel so good, Will.” The words of praise come naturally, he doesn't need to think before he says them, and still they're not nearly enough to express the depth of his love. Will's nails scratch his back as they pant against each other’s mouths, and his legs tighten around Hannibal's waist, trying to pull him closer, pull him deeper. 

“Oh fuck, harder,” he whispers against Hannibal's lips, closing his eyes as he throws his head back, baring his throat for Hannibal, and Hannibal can't resist. He mouths feverishly at Will's neck again, sucking hard on his skin as he gives Will exactly what he needs, making him whine with each rough thrust of his hips. 

“Good?” Hannibal asks as his lips and tongue leave Will's neck, breath hot against Will's damp skin, a purple bruise already forming there. 

“Yes… yes, just like that, Hannibal, oh—” Will's voice falters and Hannibal kisses him again, swallowing his whimpers as Will holds him tighter. His fingernails sink into the skin of Hannibal's back at the same time as his toes curl, squeezing Hannibal's body between his legs and clenching tightly around him as he comes, cock pulsing to spill his warm seed between their bodies. 

Hannibal fucks him through it, parting from his lips just to press his face against Will's neck, pushing into him until Will is whining with overstimulation. He incoherently mumbles words of encouragement close to Hannibal's ear, and with one last rough thrust Hannibal is coming deep inside him, buried to the hilt in the heat of Will's body. 

Will's hands caress his back gently and Hannibal smiles against his neck, still breathing heavily, feeling the rise and fall of Will's chest under his own. 

Their ardent desire gradually tapers to calmness – a sweet, warm euphoria that spreads through their limbs, brains flooding with pleasure-laced chemicals that encourage their relaxation. Will holds Hannibal close, buries his face in the crook of his neck and breathes him in. 

He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. Doesn't feel shame or selfishness, only comfort. Will feels complete. His thoughts wander, memories rushing forth: the years of his past, how he had searched and settled, stumbled and conceded, wholeheartedly believing that he had found his best possible world, something ready-made just for him. That his old setup – the ill-fitting family dynamic – was the luckiest and happiest he would ever be. 

It had been so hollow. 

He had never once felt such peace with his surrogate family. Never experienced such easiness with Molly, his wife, even after they made love. He had been happy in a sense, had been lucky, but his whole heart was never in it, not entirely. Will remembers staring for hours into the fireplace, long after Hannibal's letters had burned to ashes, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame and yet somewhere far away. He had longed for him even then, every night for three whole years. A part of Will had longed for him perhaps since the very day they met.

His heart swells inside his chest, full to bursting with the feelings he has for the man in his arms. For Hannibal. Will could fall asleep like this, with his weight on top of him, with Hannibal still inside of him. They breathe together slowly, and inevitably, they separate, but only in a physical sense. 

Hannibal moves to rest on his side, and Will mirrors him, bodies and faces pressed together tight and close, the both of them tangled up in sheets. Languidly they stretch, and smile, and Will is happy. 

He has no doubt in his mind that Molly has found her own happiness, and somehow, inexplicably, he feels the urge to close that chapter of his life once and for all. 

His only regret now is that he never got to thank Walter – he'd heeded his advice after all, killing the dragon with Hannibal two years ago. It had been the purest, most liberating moment of his life. 

"You know I love you," Will says, and traces the scars along Hannibal's forearms. Hannibal is quiet, still, but it isn't out of apprehension. "You know I could never leave you. Would never want to. This is everything I could ever ask for." 

It's funny, Will thinks. Hannibal had always wanted to be the only thing in Will's life. Effortlessly, he had become just that. He wouldn't want it any other way.

“ _But_ ,” Hannibal says, and patiently, he waits. He does not feel threatened – he and Will are far too enmeshed, too connected for a world outside of each other – but he is curious. 

"I want to write to Molly," Will finally says, eyes closing. "I think I'm ready. I want— _need_ —closure. Just one last bridge for me to burn."

Hannibal understands. He knows how guilty Will felt in the beginning, how many nights Will drank himself to sleep just to forget that he had left Molly Foster without saying goodbye. He feels relieved, in a way, that Will wants closure. That he can finally let it go. 

“You don't feel guilty anymore,” Hannibal says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Will's mouth, his arm tightening around Will's body. 

“Do you know what you want to say to her?” he asks then, fingertips skating up and down Will's back, following the line of his spine. He watches Will as they breathe into each other. 

"I've been thinking about it," Will answers, voice calm as his breathing slows. "I want to reassure her. To say thank you. And goodbye." 

He felt he had much to thank her for – for taking him in alongside the dogs, a wounded stray turned father-figure. For giving him the opportunity to be a part of a family, _their_ family, despite the loss they'd suffered. Will had suffered a loss too when they'd found each other.

He would never replace Molly's late husband and Walter's biological father, and they would never quite fill the hole that Hannibal had left behind... but somehow, together, they had been _something_. 

It was worth a few words. 

“Closure is important,” Hannibal says, fingertips drawing patterns on Will's skin. “It might be good for her too.” He smiles at Will then, and moves closer to press a soft kiss to his lips. 

He hopes that knowing Will's alive will help Molly Foster move on, if she hasn't yet. Knowing he left her willingly, because their relationship could never work out. Because she would never be able to give Will what he truly needs. Hannibal doesn't have any problem with her, not now that she's not married to Will anymore. 

Most of all, he's happy that Will can finally let go of the past and fully enjoy their new life. It feels like a new beginning. 

“However, I believe we should take care of the body in the kitchen first,” Hannibal says against Will's lips, kissing him softly one more time.

  
  


It was taking a chance – there was no guaranteeing that Molly wouldn't go straight to Jack, but Will felt she could be trusted. He'd sent the letter just days ago, ensuring that it couldn't be traced or tracked: there were no fingerprints, no hair follicles, and no return address. Nothing left behind that could possibly give them away. A secure third-party had made the delivery, quick and discreet. Molly Foster would receive closure, just as Will would – parting words and well wishes imbued with a sense of finality.

The benefits outweighed the risks if he could put the past behind him. 

The winds are strong along the Patagonian coastline, scenic cliffs overlooking the sea. Stark and rugged, they are old and worn by the ebb and flow of the ocean's tide. Their ivory color contrasts with the rich aqua blue of the ocean, beautiful and timeless, in such a desolate but lively place. It bustles with marine life on the beaches below. 

Will takes a deep breath and throws his wedding band – a straight toss as far as he can – glinting golden in the sunlight. He sees it shining in the sand until a wave rolls in and carries it out into the vast Atlantic, washed away by the tide. 

The sea nullifies. Will feels like the last ropes tethering him to his past life have finally fallen away. He is free and fearless. Hannibal stands beside him, looking out across the shimmering ocean. 

"Darwin discovered countless fossils within the jagged Patagonian cliffs," Hannibal says, hair blowing in the ocean breeze. "They helped him to develop his theory of evolution." 

"Then I suppose you find this quite symbolic.” A lazy smile stretches across Will’s face. 

"You have evolved, Will—not biologically, but in a way even more profound. I've had the privilege of watching you change. You have become the ideal: yours and mine. The perfect imago." 

"I've shed my old skin," Will breathes, and closes the distance between them. They embrace each other, the sun slowly being pulled toward the horizon. 

"You've molted. Freed yourself from the prison of your past life and emerged with wings." 

Will savors the scent of seawater, the briny air rustling their clothes. He buries his face in Hannibal's neck, and if he closes his eyes, if he drowns out the sound of gulls, he can hear only the crashing of the waves. 

“I will always remember the words you said that night,” Hannibal continues, and Will grips him tighter. “I’ll always have them to call on within the recesses of my mind.” 

"It's still beautiful," Will says, and Hannibal's eyes flutter closed in response. There is nothing in the world but them, the Atlantic, and the rawest form of love imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to us on tumblr! [empathalitis](http://empathalitis.tumblr.com) and [cannibalcuisine](http://cannibalcuisine.tumblr.com) :D


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